


this world is not made for you

by MelanieKS



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, BAMF Derek, BAMF Stiles, Blood and Gore, Bromance, Creepy Peter Creepin', Gen, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Stiles, Kidnapping, M/M, Magic, Magical stiles, Minor Character Death, POV Stiles, PTSD Stiles, Pack Cuddles, Pack Feels, Panic Attacks, Peter is a dick, Pre-Slash, Protective Derek, Protective Scott, References to Celtic Lore, Tattoos, Torture, overuse of pop culture references, real wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:58:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelanieKS/pseuds/MelanieKS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months following the events of the nogistune, Stiles gains a powerful magic that raises a lot of unwanted attention from those who either want to destroy him or use him. He has little time adjusting or understanding these new abilities when the threats start rolling in and everyone he loves is in danger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the lyrics of "Run Boy Run" by Woodkid. 
> 
> Canon divergence during season 3b. I completely disregard season 4, and Kate coming back and kidnapping Derek.
> 
> I don't have a beta for this story, but I am trying my best to make sure the chapters are edited properly before publishing. Any and all mistakes are mine. Thanks!

“I think something’s wrong with me,” Stiles declares seconds after sliding open the door of Derek’s loft.

“Besides the jittery flailing and inability to shut up, what could possibly be wrong?” Derek replies with a barely-there grin twitching the corner of his mouth. Stiles catches it, almost wants to respond with his own, but he snorts and flips Derek off instead.

He directs his attention at Scott and Kira reclining on the sofa, still looking like awkward penguins trying to figure what exactly they _are_ to each other. The temptation to roll his eyes at them is surprisingly squashed when he remembers the reason he sped over here.

Just before he could hit send on his text to Scott, he received a reminder from Lydia about the pack meeting at Derek’s. She added “ASAP” and “I bought pizza!” but no doubt she’d be the last one to show up and the pizza cold and soggy. Still, it’s the thought that counts.  

After the nogistune disassembled so much of their lives, both Scott and Derek are in desperate need of rebuilding a solid pack in order to keep up their strength in numbers. With Scott reluctant to recruit others with the bite, they only have each other, and Scott wants Derek as a beta in his pack… _officially_. The decision was already made by Derek without vocal confirmation needed, but Scott prefers some form of affirmation whether in a handshake or contract or something. He should know by now Derek’s tactics of nonverbal communication.   

“Watch this…” Stiles shoves the sleeve of his hoodie up and takes out a small Swiss Army knife from the back pocket of his jeans, notices the odd, apprehensive looks Scott and Kira give him, the way Derek’s body tenses for action, but ignores them before slicing the blade along the inside of his forearm from elbow to wrist. _Shit_ , that hurts! Blood blossoms and spills over, dripping on the polished cement floor.

Derek’s the one that catches him first, grasping his wrist and taking the knife away from him like he’s a toddler getting into adult things that are definitely no-no’s. He even gives Stiles a reproachful stare, thick brows knit together with a mixture of shock and anger. He opens his mouth to speak, but Scott beats him, as he’s crowding in front of Stiles and grasps his shoulders.

“What the _hell_ , Stiles! What are you doing?”

Stiles snatches his wrist from Derek, backs away from Scott, and wipes the blood away. “Guys, look. I’m not suicidal, all right? Just look—”

Just as he almost cut his finger in _half_ chopping hotdogs the night before, the cut is gone, vanished like it never happened. After several attempts at self-harming to prove his sanity – still working on that bit – he can’t get use to the fact that something supernatural is happening with him… _again_.

“Dude—“ Scott gapes, his eyes bouncing from Stiles’ arm to Derek and back again. “How? What?”

“Exactly,” Stiles mutters, his shoulders slumping. “I tried proving to myself that I wasn’t going crazy with this whole healing thing. Which, I’m still working on that. I cut myself at least twenty times and every time it just…heals. Still hurts like a mother, but then _poof_ it’s gone. I was tempted to start breaking bones by jumping out of my window to see if that does anything, but I chickened out when I thought of compound fractures. I can’t handle that.”

“Good,” Derek hisses and tosses the knife on the metal table behind him. He crosses his arms and glares at Stiles, still silently barraging him for that move.

Stiles flinches both from Derek’s stare and from the reverberating clang of steel clattering on steel, dragging his bottom between his teeth as he looks at each pack member like a sudden burden has collapsed on him. In so many ways, it has. He’s still trying to get over the possession and he’s starting to wonder if self-healing is the least of his worries.  

“Then there’s this…” He pulls his t-shirt and hoodie over his shoulders, trying hard to ignore, but failing, when the muscles along his spine flinch and bunch as Scott gasps out a curse. From what Stiles was able to see in the mirror this morning, an etching of an old and large tree – much like the white tree of Gondor, which would be _awesome_ if not for the whole-appearing-overnight-thing – is centered between his shoulder blades with geometrical lines and curves interconnecting and spanning over his shoulders and arms, down his spine and then reaching just below the hairline at the nape of his neck.

“I woke up like this—“ Stiles can’t hide the trembling in his voice.

“It’s beautiful,” Kira breathes out, stepping closer and fingers tracing the etchings. Stiles lets her despite the temptation to cower, or better yet dig a hole and never come out. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head, gnawing on his bottom lip again, and turns an earnest gaze at Scott, as if seeking the ultimate answers to life and the universe and this weird shit that keeps popping up. He really needs answers. Really hopes that Scott or Derek can come up with something, while this…this scares and intrigues and makes him sick all at once. As much as he wants an explanation, he’s terrified if it has anything to do with the nogistune or the Nemeton. He thought he was done; four months of actual normalcy, aside from random bouts of sleeplessness or nightmares and the whole guilt thing weighing down like an elephant sitting on his chest. He can’t go through that shit again or anything like it. He barely survived the last time. 

“We need to call Deaton.” Scott is already dialing the vet’s number before he finishes, wandering away.

Derek is like a freakin’ ghost, disappearing and then he’s back wiping up the small pool of blood on the floor with a towel and bleach.

Stiles frowns, rubs the back of his neck hard enough to bruise, as he paces around the table. He burrows in his oversized sweatshirt, shoulders hunched and hands curled inside the sleeves. Overhears Scott explaining what just happened with worry thick in his hushed voice. Worry is an understatement for how Stiles feels – freaking the _fuck_ out sums it up nicely. This might be a lot better to handle if Stiles was actually a werewolf with the crazy healing powers, but he’s not. Nowhere near it. He’s still human. Or maybe he isn’t anymore. God—

He jumps, hissing out a curse when Derek’s hand rests on the back of his neck. Shoulders tense, he peers at Derek’s profile from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t shrug away from the werewolf’s touch. It’s warm, grounding, and strangely not at all weird.

“Here…” Derek hands him a clean towel. “You’ve got blood all over you.”

“What? Oh…” Stiles blinks down at his hands and cringes at the drying smear of red on his skin. Doesn’t make him sick, just more unsettled that he has no evidence of wounds to back up the amount of blood on him. He shakes his head while scrubbing clean. “This is so messed up, like seriously epic on the scale of all messed up things. Right? I can understand possession, been there done that, don’t ever wanna do it again, but this? I shouldn’t be able to do this. I shouldn’t _look_ like this, either. I’m supposed to be the gangly and pale _human_ of the pack.”  

Derek crosses his arms, mouth set in a tight line, staring out the windows. “Still are. This doesn’t change _who_ you are.”

“What if it does? What if this is just the beginning to a whole new level of screwed up?”

“Then we’ll figure it out,” Scott promises from behind them with a strong finality in his voice. He stands on the other side of Stiles, clamps a hand on his shoulder and gives that easy lop-sided smile. If only this situation was _easy_. “Deaton doesn’t seem all that worried, but he’s on his way.”

Deaton is notorious for not giving away too much of his emotions, even to Scott. That alone makes Stiles more stressed. He doesn’t want to chase Deaton around bushes. He’s scared out of his mind and all he wants is something concrete that will help him keep it together. He can’t lose it, not when he’s attempting to get over what the nogistune did to him and his friends – what it’s still doing to them.

Lydia shows up hair and clothes tousled as if she ran here with the smell of pepperoni and mozzarella wafting from the boxes in her hands. She doesn’t say a word to anyone, dumps the food on the sofa, and makes a beeline for Stiles; her eyes glistening with unshed tears. No explanation needed. She already knows. She must feel some type of energy – whether it’s good or bad – emanating from Stiles as she hesitates to touch him, yet she hovers close. Vigilant. Worried. They exchange a silent look and he offers her a tight smile, more so for her benefit than his own. She returns the smile, her gaze broken and hurting for Stiles. He doesn’t let her know how much that scares him.

Not ten minutes later, Deaton arrives with his trusty black “medical” bag full of Druid essentials. He sets it on the table beside Stiles where he’s perched on the edge, legs swinging. Feels like a kid at the Pediatrician’s office, eager for the lollipop after a routine check-up. He eyes the pack standing behind Deaton, silent and stoic, yet the air is crackling with restless energy. If that’s not enough to make Stiles ready to jump out of his skin, when Deaton instructs him to strip off his shirts, he’s only more on edge and he has to keep himself from fidgeting and twitching like cornered prey.

The long stretch of quiet that follows sends Stiles’ heart racing, pulse thumping loud and hard on his neck. Deaton’s fingers trace the patterns, arcing and swooping in a cohesive net of lines and circles, leaving goose bumps in his wake. When he hums, Stiles can’t tell if that means good or bad where it concerns the Druid.

Spine straight, he lifts his brows. “What’s the diagnosis, doc? Am I going to live?”

Derek audibly rolls his eyes.

“Aside from the tree, there is more than just one symbol or meaning here, and with them unified like this, it has to mean something more than just a bunch of random knots and symbols put together. Some of them I don’t recognize off-hand. I’ll have to take pictures and do some further research—“

“But you recognize the origin?” Stiles interrupts, interest piqued.

Deaton nods, mouth pressed in a tight line. “The tree is Celtic, for sure. It symbolizes life."

“Should I be worried?”

“It’s too early to tell,” Deaton answers in his oh-so-ambiguous and professional tone.

Stiles glances at Scott, Derek then Lydia for some level of encouragement since he knows he won’t get that with Deaton. Though infuriatingly vague the majority of the time, the Druid still doesn’t sugarcoat anything.  

“Just lay low for a while,” Deaton adds after he snaps a few photos of Stiles’ back with his phone.

Scott steps close enough that he’s pressed against Stiles’ arm, his warmth and presence keeping Stiles secure while the ground seems like it’s crumbling underneath him. “How long is a while?”

“Until I can find something more concrete. Keep this within the pack. No one else needs to know. The last thing we need is word to spread before we’re able to get a better handle on what’s going on,” Deaton replies while rummaging through his bag.

“So, I have to lie to my dad…again.” Stiles inflates while scrubbing the heel of his palm against his eyes. “How am I supposed to keep the tattoos a secret? It’s not like I can keep wearing long sleeves and turtlenecks, especially during Lacrosse practice.” His leg jitters and he worries on his thumbnail.

The veterinarian dangles a colorful gemstone attached to a black string before Stiles’ face. He quirks an eyebrow, frowning. “I feel like I’m about to get a geology lesson. What is that?”

“It’s agate. A crystalline form of silica found in volcanic rocks,” Lydia supplies like an automated recording, staring at the small stone swinging from its tether. When she realizes everyone is staring back at her, she blinks owlishly and moistens her lips. “What? I read it somewhere.”

“Correct,” Deaton says with a humorless grin. “It will not only protect you from evil intentions from others, but I also warded it to act as a barrier to everyone but the wearer. They would have to know you’re wearing it and concentrate hard enough to see past it. It will help guise the markings. Keep it on at all times.”

Stiles slips the pendant around his neck, rubs the stone between his thumb and forefinger, and feels it tingling against his skin when he touches the runes Deaton etched on the surface. He shivers in spite of an odd, yet welcoming stillness spreading through his bones. Tension releases in his shoulders and he eases forward with a sigh. Notices Lydia visibly relax, as well, not realizing she was holding onto so much apprehension while standing there.

“Is Stiles in danger?”

A beat later, Deaton answers with an ominous stiffness in his voice. “Stiles is…resonating magic – a lot of it. I’m sure you can sense it, Lydia.”

She nods slowly, licks her lips again. Stiles stares at her, brow creased together, and wonders _what_ she feels exactly. She’s been distant from the moment she arrived, looking as if she’s ready to pounce and run. He hates that he’s the cause of her distress, but it isn’t like he has control over it.

“That still doesn’t answer my question if he’s in danger,” Derek says, keeping his gaze on Stiles like a mother worrying over her child.

“Yes and no,” Deaton answers and Derek growls low, obviously not pleased with that answer, surprising Stiles. He blinks at him, jaw lax and unsure how to perceive this sudden outward attitude from the werewolf. “As long as the wards on the agate work and Stiles remembers to keep it on, we shouldn’t have anything to worry about. But… there’s no telling what I will find in my research. I have no idea what we are dealing with here or how powerful Stiles may become. Until then, I can say with a high level of certainty that Stiles will be fine.”

“Good. Great. Fantastic.” Stiles scoots off the table and is quick to put his clothes back on, but resists the urge to pull the hood over his head and hide underneath. “Go on with life as normal and try to ignore the fact that I can heal rapidly and have a giant tattoo of a tree on my back. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Scott grips Stiles’ shoulder and squeezes, tries to take off some of the pressure building that’s about to make Stiles explode. “I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure nothing happens to you,” he promises, and though Scott’s still human underneath all that alpha strength, and will no doubt fail in some way, the assurance helps.   

“We _all_ will,” Lydia chimes in, eyeing Derek longer than the others, but Stiles has a funny itch that tells him Derek is the least of her worries. She just doesn’t know it yet. It takes time for Lydia to respect others and trust them; Derek is low on that list despite his previous efforts to prove he isn’t the arrogant asshole he was while an alpha. Still an asshole most of the time, but getting better.    

Eager for reprieve from all the attention on him, Stiles claps his hands before rubbing them together. He ogles the boxes from the hole-n-the-wall pie shop that has the best crust known to man, and says, “I’m hungry. Let’s eat!”  

 

\----

This is what I had in mind for the tree on Stiles' back, just to give you a visual reference. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Go away, Stiles,” Derek demands through a hoarse growl.

He tries slamming shut the bathroom door, adding that extra bit of barrier between them, but Stiles blocks it from smacking his nose with his shoe. Under normal circumstances, Derek could’ve easily broken his foot, but with him bleeding out black goo from almost every orifice, his super-wolfy strength is about thirty-percent and still dropping. All thanks to a new group of hunters that were wielding wolf’s bane bullets and arrows, prancing around town, and setting up camp deep in the preserve. After Argent left, it was an instantaneous vacuum effect, and Beacon Hills became free reign for any and all hunters. In the last several months more and more of those pests came in and took over like a cockroach infestation.

Funny thing is this particular band of merry men didn’t come for Derek, Scott or _any_ werewolf for that matter. They went after Stiles, which, _what the hell_? How did they find out about him? It’s not like Stiles has a huge neon sign flashing across his forehead that says, “Look at me! I’m supernatural now! Yay for me!” Or maybe he does and he doesn’t know it. Maybe the agate pendant is losing its effect on keeping Stiles safe. The only people who know about Stiles’ newfound and still creepy abilities are the pack. Not his dad. Not Scott’s mom. And _especially_ not Peter. Which, that alone, has been immensely difficult given the fact that Peter creeps around town and Derek’s loft like a slithering slug. He always pops up at the most inopportune times, and with super-human hearing, Stiles has to be extra careful about what types of conversations he has when Peter is more than likely slinking around.

Lucky for Stiles, the hunters didn’t intend on actually hurting him when they took him – not _yet_ at least – but only asked nonsensical questions. Mostly gauge his threat-level, see if he is _worthy_ of their full attention. That still doesn’t negate the fact that they kidnapped him from the grocery store parking lot, leaving his Jeep, phone, and bags of perishable foods on the front seat to rot in the sun. He’d planned on grilling hamburgers for dinner, while his dad had an all-nighter at the station, and the pack was coming over for pack stuff and a Dark Knight marathon.

Blindfolded him so he couldn’t see their faces, and took him to their secret rebel base deep in the woods of the preserve and questioned every facet of his life. Stiles didn’t care so much about the questions, but it’s how they found out about him in the first place – something they weren’t so inclined on telling him.

He _knows_ , though, no one has ever survived the possession of a nogistune. That part of his life was no secret in the circle of hunters – it could only mean they think he’s still the nogistune or something else. Something _more_. What, Stiles doesn’t even know yet. While Deaton is buried deep in research three weeks in, Stiles has conducted his own investigation, but only found out more on the Tree of Life in Celtic lore. But this _thing_ that’s happening to him is more than ancient trees and tattoos and self-healing. He’s like the Mystery Spot, suddenly the gravitational pull to the supernatural and also those that hunt them.

They never mentioned the tattoos, so the wards on the agate must be working for something, but then again Derek showed up before the hunters could divulge any more information from Stiles. All fangs and claws and glowing eyes, Derek ripped through the makeshift camp like a tornado. His way of civilly telling the hunters Stiles was off-limits, no doubt. How Derek found him so quickly – even knew he was kidnapped in the first place – that’s a conversation for later. He can’t deny his chest swelled with pride over Derek’s massive protective streak, but he’d never admit that to anyone, least of all Derek.

Ironic, how the events turned from Stiles being rescued to rescuing Derek instead. Damn that Sourwolf and his stupid charge first and ask questions later methods, foolishly trying to chase the hunters out and failed. Didn’t even call Scott for backup, not knowing what sort of camp he was running into to find Stiles. It could have been a trap for him or Scott – like that hasn’t happened before. It’s astounding that Derek still lives with the amount of idiocy clogging the thing between his ears. Good thing Stiles was around to slap some common sense into Derek – if only that could be literal – and drag him out of there.

“Dude! You’re in _my_ bathroom in _my_ house!” Stiles waves his arms around, emphasizing that fact with a dramatic eye roll. “Remember? My rules once you cross that front door.”

Derek actually looks like he’s contemplating the idea of leaving, but Stiles is already shaking his head with a sound of protest, and pushes further inside the bathroom before Derek has the opportunity to flee. He backs the werewolf against the tub until he’s forced to plop his grumpy ass on the edge. Stiles overlooks the blood smeared on the wall from where Derek’s hand braced against it.    

“Jus’ …lemme help, man. It’s the least I can do for you coming to my rescue.”

He doesn’t add the fact that Derek looks like he will keel over any second; pupils blown wide with only a thin line of green around the edges. Pain is apparent in the taut lines of Derek’s jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers, skin colorless and clammy, and black blood oozing from his nostrils and ears and eyes. His veins are purplish-black and standing out against the whiteness of his skin – the poison working fast towards his heart. Stiles winces and swallows thick.  

“I’m _fine_ ,” Derek barks, but the bite has lost its frosty edge.  

“Yeah, uh, doesn’t look like it anytime soon, buddy. Just suck up that wolf pride of yours and admit defeat already.”

Nostrils flare as Derek curls his lip.

“Right. Okay.”

Stiles spins on his heels, almost slips and falls on his ass when he steps on a puddle of blood, and rummages through the vanity cabinet for the emergency supernatural creature battle first-aid kit. It’s not just a rudimentary stash of Band-Aids and antiseptic, but filled with an assorted supply of wolf’s bane, rock salt, mountain ash and other various herbs all thanks to Deaton. Along with it he has a suture kit, which ironically, Stiles doesn’t need anymore. He keeps it, just in case.  

Derek swats Stiles’ hand away when he tries helping the werewolf out of his shirt. Just looks constipated rather than annoyed with Stiles when he finally relents and grabs the hem of his shirt.The sickening squelch of wet, sticky fabric peeling away from blood-soaked skin tosses Stiles’ stomach in a tumble and he snaps back to attention. Several bullet holes mar Derek’s stomach and chest, but Stiles knows there’s a few more that hit the werewolf’s right leg; the bleeding more prominent there.

Stiles lifts his brows. “Jeans, too.”

Derek gives Stiles a withering stare before hacking up a glob of _tar_ on the bathroom floor, curls in on himself as pain attacks him from within. He’s leaning so far over that Stiles can see an exit wound from one of the bullets on Derek’s shoulder. A disgusted sound breaches Stiles’ throat before he can rein it in and he sends Derek an apologetic look. More so a look of pity, not that Derek is paying much attention to Stiles, because if the outer appearance is any indication, Derek is definitely in a shit load of pain right now. Stiles sways a little on his feet, but blames that on the adrenaline pounding a thousand miles a second against his ribcage, and not the fact that Derek looks like he’s seconds away from imploding into a sickening blob like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

Forget the jeans. Stiles steps forward, hands outstretched, hoping to catch Derek off guard before he has the capacity to realize what’s happening. Not quick enough. The werewolf’s body jerks, stiffening when Stiles is invading his personal space; almost topples backward into the bathtub before pressing a hand against Stiles’ chest to keep him at a distance.  

“What are you—” Derek snaps breathlessly then grimaces, his hand dropping to claw at his stomach. Sweat rolls down the sides of his face, hair matted against his head as if he just stepped out of the shower.

“Can I—“ Stiles looks at Derek, biting his lower lip as Derek stares back with an impatient, yet weary regard. “I wanna try something. I have a theory. I, uh, wanted to see if it actually works. I would test it on myself, but well…” Thick, dark brows knit together and the lines around Derek’s mouth tighten. His glare alone makes Stiles blurt out, “I want to see if I can heal you. Maybe I’m like Jesus. You never know until you try, right?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No.”

“That’s not a good enough explanation.”

“Because I said so. Better?”

“You—“ Stiles squeezes his lips in a taut line and huffs through his nose, crosses his arms for more emphasis over Derek’s obstinate streak even in the midst of dying in Stiles’ bathroom.

Lucky for Stiles, Derek chooses that moment to roll his eyes back into his head and pitch forward in a faint. Not so lucky, though, to catch Derek’s dead weight before he face plants on the tiles. Stiles grunts and shuffles backwards, only to trip over his feet and have Derek draped over him like a pallet of bricks when he falls. Air is crushed out of his lungs and he flails around in an attempt to get out from underneath Derek, sputtering out curses when he doesn’t succeed all the way and Derek’s sprawled over his legs.

“Geez. You really need to stop passing out on me, dude. Either I need to put on more muscle, or you need to lose weight,” Stiles mutters, rolling his eyes.

Eyelids fluttering and a raspy moan is Derek’s response. Inky blood bubbles over his lips and dribbles down his chin, soaks in the dark whiskers of his beard.

“That’s what I thought. You need to lose weight. Give up the raw meat and maybe go vegetarian, ever thought of that? I’m actually quite built for my height with chasing after you crazy wolves all the time,” Stiles chatters on with the nervous energy sparking like a live wire underneath his skin. He sucks in a breath and keeps going. “Okay, let’s see if this works. Don’t hate me if it doesn’t – actually you probably already do. Just don’t hate me _more_ , if that’s even possible. Completely by accident I tried this on a stray dog hanging around the station that had a broken leg. Seemed to heal fine, but who knows, your stubbornness might actually reject my phenomenal cosmic powers.”

If Derek were conscious, he would tell Stiles to shut up followed by some bodily threat, and a dark twist of his mouth and brooding eyebrows. Stiles chuckles beneath his breath then sobers. Closes his eyes, as he presses his palms flat on Derek’s chest, feels the fever radiating off his skin, and doesn’t think about anything other than healing what’s broken. It’s a miracle he can focus on one thing at all, but it’s as if the mystery magic pumping through his veins triggers his brain to center on a cohesive thought. He imagines blood clean of poison; muscle fibers, tendons, and cartilage mending; skin stitching together. Senses the energy rippling through him and then out, his body warm – comfortable – like he’s nestled in front of a campfire.    

Derek arches his back. Stiles’ eyes fly open, breath caught in his throat, as a whine tears out of Derek’s throat, eyelids flickering as if he’s having a seizure, nails scraping along the tiles for purchase. His body shudders once and then a long exhale blows past his slack lips before he goes still. Breathing evens out and the fever’s gone, along with the bullet wounds.

“Holy—“ Stiles gasps and then a half-crazed, half-shocked laugh bursts from his throat. His throws his hands up with a triumphant _whoop_. “That was… _awesome_! Oh, my God. I just did that. I did that. Holy _shit_.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice scrapes out like sandpaper, his eyes closed. “Shut up.”

His gaze snaps down, his breathing still for a beat before he thumps Derek’s shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire cat. Derek grunts as he rolls over, off of Stiles, and sits up to lean his back against the bathtub. He rubs the back of his neck, lifts his eyes toward Stiles with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

“What’d you do?”

“Kissed all your booboo’s and made them go away,” Stiles answers with another peeved eye roll.

“I told you not to. What if it backfired?”

“But it didn’t. You’re fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Just peachy. So, stop complaining and just be grateful I saved your ass.”

Derek’s rebuttal is a scathing frown, but Stiles waves it off and stands up. Straightens his shirt and jeans and tries disregarding the copious amount of blood soaked in the fabric – idly wonders if it’s all Derek’s. The werewolf just watches him, silent and thoughtful, which is a little disconcerting and Stiles fidgets under his scrutiny.  

“Uh, I’ll find some clothes that’ll fit you, so you can take a shower.”  

“You’re hurt?” Derek inclines his chin toward Stiles’ face.  

“Huh?” His fingers fly up to the side of his face and absentmindedly scratches at crusted blood, feels it clumped in his hair by his ear. He never had the time to care about his own wellbeing, obviously didn’t need to since he feels no pain. “Nah, it healed. I’m fine,” he replies with a lazy smirk. He’ll probably never get used to this whole invincibility thing, despite the fact that it totally beats broken ribs or concussions that take _weeks_ to heal.  

“I saw that one hunter swipe your head like a tether ball with his shotgun. How’s your focus?”

“Fine.”

“Hearing?”

“It’s fine. Seriously.”

“Any memory loss?”

“No.“

"What about your neck? Does it hurt?”

“No, Derek. I don’t feel any residual effects from it. I’m not going to shatter like glass anymore. Seriously,” Stiles says through a taut sigh. “Take a shower, okay? I’m gonna order some Chinese take-out since I had to abandon dinner in my Jeep when they took me. And I’ll call Scott.”

The disquieted look Derek shoots him is one Stiles gets all too often from his dad, and that’s the _last_ thing Stiles wants to see – especially from Derek. Besides it’s just weird and unbecoming of the werewolf to show this much concern. 

“Stop that. Take a shower.” Stiles shuts the door before Derek can mother-hen him further or protest about the shower, and lets out a long exhale. He wanders across the hall to his bedroom and sinks down on the bed, suddenly the adrenaline crashing. It was the only thing keeping him standing. Now he can’t keep his eyes open. He leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees, and plows fingers through his hair.

The fatigue weighs down his bones, muscles pliant and laden, and head dipping further down. Lids droop and close. There’s no stopping it once it hit, the stress from the evening’s events barreling into him like a Mack truck. He collapses on his back, legs dangling over the mattress, and he’s asleep within seconds – doesn’t even know if the shower faucet turned on, completely forgot to find Derek some clothes, or call Scott.   

When Stiles wakes, he’s trapped between an overheated, but comfy pile of limbs and fur, his face nestled in Lydia’s hair. Must have slept through Scott and Lydia coming over and whoever maneuvered him in the middle of the mattress and stripped him to his boxers. _What?_ Oh, the blood. Right. Funny, he's not disconcerted about it at all. Not even as he’s spooned against Lydia’s back, arms wrapped around her and their legs tangled, feels her chest rise and fall with the deep breathing of sleep. Scott’s snoring lightly behind him, along with the solacing weight of large paws against his back. Also, finds Derek at his feet, all one hundred and fifty pounds of sinew and black fur curled up at the end of the bed like a loyal and obedient dog, like he _belongs_. Which, is still _weird_ , considering this is Derek and he’d prefer to bite rather than cuddle. Luminescent blue eyes stare back at Stiles, unblinking and ever watchful. His ears twist forward and he lets out of a long sigh through his nose – a sound of content – and seems to sink further in a sleepy lull. Stiles inhales the coconut scent of Lydia’s shampoo and smiles – he could get used to this. The solidity of friendship and the ease they all share in watching out for one another like it’s second nature. Each other’s loyalty is what keeps them strong.

_Complete._

That sums up the pack. It feels right. It feels good. He’s surrounded by his friends…his family. Whatever shit storm his life has become and will undoubtedly face, he’ll get through it because he has the pack facing it right along with him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuddles! Yay!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots and lots of dialogue and information in this chapter. Wow. Sorry for that, but it's essential for the plot.

Stiles jolts awake when his cellphone whistles a new text message on the nightstand. He smacks his chin against Lydia’s shoulder with the sleep-heavy urgency to check his phone, as he tries rolling over her. Fails miserably and ends up squishing her instead. She lets out a muffled squeak from the sudden wakeup call and pushes at Stiles’ chest. Then she snuffles, which is just _adorable_ , before burrowing against his side, pining for warmth.

“S’rry…s’rry,” he mumbles and settles back against the headboard, phone in hand. Dry scrubs his face, the prickle of a day’s worth of stubble abrading his palm. His body feels like lead, eyes gummy and mouth dry as charcoal from too much sleep. His eyes narrow at the lit screen of his phone with a recent text from Derek followed by three texts and five missed calls from Scott and two missed calls from his dad that started about two hours after the hunters nabbed him from the store, no doubt checking on him.

He taps a quick text to his dad, letting him know he _accidentally_ put his phone on silent last night, cringes when he sends it because he’s forced to lie again.

Wait – how is he even in possession of his phone right now? He was forced to ditch it with his Jeep. And when did Scott and Derek leave? Normally, Stiles isn’t a heavy sleeper since his subconscious is always running around like a Jack Rabbit along with the expectancy of when his dad will get home on late shifts. Most likely Scott had to work early, clean out shit – literally – from cages and whatnot. There’s no need to question Derek’s disappearance. He comes and goes as he pleases, weaving in and out of scenes like a perpetually grumpy ninja. Stiles blinks down at the text from Derek, and then the time 8:16AM. His dad will be home within the hour.  

**Jeep’s in the driveway. You’re welcome.**

Stiles replies: **Was the meat rancid? Did you eat it? I bet you did! Confess!**

 **Deaton has new info. Meet at clinic ASAP.** No witty or snide comeback, such a shame.

Stiles and Lydia make it in about twenty minutes after she drowsily throws on a pair of Stiles’ Lacrosse track pants and sweatshirt, a cap covering her bedhead. How she ends up still looking beautiful while frumpy and deprived of her Saturday morning coffee, Stiles just chocks it up that it is _Lydia_. No need for explanation or further analysis. Although, he did tease her about snapping a picture and posting it all over the internet for everyone to get a glimpse of the _real_ Lydia. The look she tosses at him promises years of maiming if he so much as pulls his phone out of his pocket. He can’t stop laughing and buys her coffee from Starbucks. She cradles the cup between her dainty hands like it’s the last drink on Earth, a smile curving her lips when she inhales the steam of over-roasted beans, and Stiles pulls a face.“Don’t judge,” she snaps with a pointed finger at him and enjoys another sip.   

“No judging here. Just oddly curious how you don’t get high off the fumes.”

“It’s coffee, Stiles, not paint.”

“But really, _really_ badly burned coffee. I mean, _really bad_ – who does that to coffee beans? Why? It seems like a piss-poor service to society and the art of coffee making…brewing, whatever.”  

Lydia can’t keep a smile from twitching her lips as she retorts, “And this coming from someone who obviously knows the difference in taste of roasted beans. You can’t even drink coffee.”

“My argument is still valid,” he says as he pulls into an empty parking space beside Derek’s Camaro at the behind the vet’s office. Scott’s motorcycle is perched against the brick wall.

Lydia hums, totally unconvinced of Stiles’ debate over coffee, but allows Stiles his moment. What a true friend, she is. He holds the door open for her as they enter the clinic and a barrage of whining and barking hits their ears. Most of the animals are still edgy around the werewolves – especially the new ones that aren’t boarded as often and unfamiliar with the crazy scents or vibes the wolves permeate the clinic with.

Scott and Deaton are finishing up a quick suture job on a Labrador’s paw, while Derek’s sitting on a supply table against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed. His seems rested, peaceful, but the tightening of his arm muscles says otherwise. Then again, Derek is always tense and alert about something. If werewolves actually got headaches, he would have one hell of a tension migraine.

When Scott looks at Lydia and her outfit, he does a double take and his face slowly morphs into shocked bemusement, but he doesn’t dare open his mouth and comment. He’ll end up leaving the clinic without his jewels attached.

Lydia sidles over by Derek, sitting on a chair and finishes her coffee in silence, while Deaton cleans up and Scott carries the sedated Lab back to its cage. The Druid studies Stiles over his shoulder as he calmly washes his hands at the sink, his face the typical stoic mask, yet conveying a million possibly unsettling things with the stillness and reservation he carries like a second skin. Stiles thinks he had to be a Buddhist monk in another life, considering the plethora of patience he possesses. It’s just not normal.   

“Derek filled me on what happened yesterday. How are you feeling, Stiles?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles answers, waving it off as he rests a hip against the metal examination table. “Though I’m curious how they found out about me in the first place. Either we have a mole in our midst or the pendant is losing its mojo.”

“It’s only been about five months since the nogistune was destroyed. There’s no record of anyone ever surviving a possession by a dark spirit as powerful as him, so that’s going to arouse suspicion and interest. Word spread fast about you, Stiles,” Deaton explains.

“We also think Peter may know,” Scott blurts out, his voice tinged with the same dread suddenly squeezing Stiles’ stomach into knots.

“Right. Of _course_ he does. Thanks for that side note, Scott. Not really helping here.”

His best friend looks like he’s about to throw up once he realizes his complete lack of discretion. Definitely an-open-mouth-insert foot moment, but Stiles had more than his fair share of those and he can brush it off easily. The fact that Peter may know, Stiles can’t easily let that go. Peter has done nothing but terrorize, manipulate, and hurt Stiles’ friends. Not only that but he creeps the hell out of everyone, and Stiles seems like the only one brave – no, stupid – enough to voice that out loud. After his offer to give the bite to Stiles, he always seems to hold a particular and strong interest in Stiles. He stares at Stiles too long when he’s around, gets too close, or just lurks like a lovesick stalker. Stiles shudders and closes his eyes, feels the pang of nausea creep up.  

“I’ll deal with it,” Derek announces. “He hasn’t been in town for a few days, but once he gets back, I’ll make sure he doesn’t become a problem.”  

Stiles huffs out a shaky breath; not entirely swayed by Derek’s obvious confidence to _deal_ with Peter. Derek seems like he’s always getting his ass kicked and handed back to him, despite his best efforts. Peter keeps saying he’s still _weak_ from the resurrection, but Stiles knows better than to take anything Peter says at face value. He’s a conniving wolf with nothing but his best interests at heart.

He rubs a hand down his face, notices he didn’t shave after he brushed his teeth this morning, and he counters, “How do you expect to do that when it always seems like the creeper is two steps ahead of us?”

Derek grunts, which sounds a lot like: ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Stiles opens his mouth with a base rebuttal, but Deaton shuts him up by saying, “That bridge hasn’t come, yet.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Stiles mutters, twisting his lip in distaste. He hates where this conversation headed and would love nothing more than to shake it off with a few hard shooting practices at the Lacrosse goal and then stuff his mouth with curly fries and pizza. His stomach rumbles at the thought, blatantly reminding him he didn’t eat breakfast.  

Lydia tosses the empty Starbucks cup in the trash bin as she stands. She moves closer to Stiles and lays her hand on his arm.With the subtle contact, it instantly eases most of the pressure coiling in Stiles’ body like a wire ready to snap. He sinks a little against her side.   

“What new information did you have to tell us?” she asks.

The mood seems to shift along with the conversation, no longer as tense and uncomfortable, at least for the moment. Stiles really, really hates how Peter has that affect – even when he’s not close by.

“First I’d like to know what sort of information you found, Stiles,” Deaton states, a tiny smile spreading at the corners of his mouth.  

“Not much, aside from the tree signifying life and death, that it unites both upper and lower worlds, and a symbol of balance, rebirth, harmony, and long life. Do you think this means I will live forever? I gotta admit that’d actually be awesome.”

“No. That would be creepy,” Scott adds and visibly shakes as if he had a sudden chill.  

“Hey, this just means I get to be Batman for once,” Stiles says, jabs Scott’s chest while grinning from ear to ear. “I am seriously a badass, guys. I am like the Avengers, Superman, and the Dark Knight all in one handsome package deal.” He strokes his hands down his chest just to drive it home, and Scott scrunches his face like he ate something sour and spicy at the same time.  

Derek rolls his eyes, and actually groans as if pained.

“Batman was _human_. He only had money to buy him big, expensive toys to overcompensate for his inability to shoot lasers from his eyes,” Lydia chimes in, totally bursting Stiles’ bubble. He gives her a wounded look. She just shrugs with a nonchalant lift of her chin.

“Batman’s still better. He’s got ninja skills. I secretly want to be a ninja, guys.”

“Now it’s not a secret,” Lydia supplies, while braiding her hair over her shoulder, still cool as a cucumber.

“How about we leave the comics discussion for conventions and let Deaton talk,” Derek interjects with a clearly annoyed, ‘I have better things to do with my time’ voice, and uses his dark brow to emphasize Deaton’s mellow and tolerant presence beside Scott. Derek’s still perched on the table like a big panther lounging on a tree, waiting for his supper to waltz by unbeknownst of the danger above.

Stiles clears his throat, and shifts on his feet, like a tiny dance to shake off the jitters. As much as he’s curious about the lore and his abilities, he still can’t deny he’s scared about whatever is happening to him – whatever _will_ happen. He shudders at the endless ideas firing off in his head.Seems like ages ago all he had to worry about was trying to get his butt off the bench in Lacrosse, pass his classes to prove he’s fully capable of having a 4.0GPA, while still flailing and running around like a spasmodic monkey. Now it’s werewolves and hunters and magic and mayhem at every corner. Now he has a target on his back, maybe an even bigger one than the wolves.

The game has completely changed since the spawns of Van Helsing can’t keep their trigger-happy fingers from pointing the barrel or bow at him. Despite so many of them disregarding whatever half-assed honor code they have, humans were off-limits in the sense of hunting. Kidnapping? Threatening bodily harm and a punch here or there? Totally different story. But Stiles is more than fair game as he’s stepped from simple human to becoming the embodiment of an ancient and powerful tree. Lovely.

“Okay, so this…Tree of Life. What’s the lowdown?”

“Well, we know that you have the ability to self-heal and now also heal others,” Deaton says, eyeing Derek for a moment before placing a manila folder, thick with printed papers, on the metal examination table between them. He doesn’t open it, but leans forward with his hands braced on the edge of the table, peering at Stiles beneath the shadow of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. He looks haunted under the odd angle of light, but his voice is steady, inquisitive even. “There’s also a high probability you can take life the same way you give it – with physical contact. The Tree of Life was a sacred symbol in ancient Celtic religion. They believed trees were the source of life and sustenance. Without trees there is nothing. I have no doubt the Nemeton’s power has awoken your magic. The tree is a significant centerpiece on your back, which means it is the foundation, the root.”

“My magic,” Stiles repeats with a deadpanned stare, for once speechless.

“I always believed you were a Spark,” Deaton adds, “You were capable of spreading the line of mountain ash at the rave just by conjuring it, by _believing_ it would appear in your hand. No typical human is capable of that.”

“I really didn’t think of it like that. I just…did it. More so out of panic to close the line.”

The Druid lifts his brow, wordlessly saying _exactly,_ but emphasizes his point by asking, “How did you heal Derek last night?”

Stiles exchanges a quiet, knowing glance with Derek. He nods at Stiles; his way of showing encouragement. But Stiles still has to swallow down the nervous edge creeping, not at all eased by Derek’s silent attempt at concession. He looks back at Deaton, and answers in a voice too rough, “By thinking about it, focusing on just that one idea and by believing it could happen.”  

Deaton offers him a pleased face with the barest hint of a smile. Scott just stares at Stiles like he’s the fairy godmother, ready to dress him up for the magical ball to meet his princess in a palace far, far away – all dreamy and hopeful. Sometimes his best friend freaks him out. He thwacks Scott on the arm with a silent glare, lips tight and white around the edges.

Derek uncurls his arms and slides off the table to stand with the fluid motion of water gracefully sluicing over rock. He fidgets a corner of the manila folder, idly curious, and states, “Like Lydia’s powers being awakened by Peter’s bite, Stiles’ powers were revived by the sacrifice to the Nemeton.”

“So, this means I was born with magic,” Stiles says, tone thick with that final declaration.

“Correct. I was able to find impressions of the wolf, the snake, the fox, and the orca within the designs of the tree on your back, Stiles. They all mean something different, even have several meanings for one, yet they work as a unit to represent the same thing: _you_. If you read the list of symbolic meanings, you will find many of your own traits and personality within. It’s quite fascinating,” Deaton says and flips the folder open and shuffles the papers across the table’s surface.

A variety of website clippings and sketches of the animals are spread out before them. Stiles grabs one on the orca, which seems to have the longest list of attributes that links the animal to him, ranging from strategic, playful, intuitive, intelligent, and motherly.

“I doubt it was a coincidence the nogistune went after you. Because you carry some of the same traits as the fox, mostly including your ability to adapt, your cleverness, and cunning strategies, the nogistune found you as a sort of…refuge.”

“Refuge,” Stiles snorts, suddenly a bad taste in his mouth. He drops the paper as if it just secreted a slimy substance, and pushes away from the table, stares up at Deaton for a pregnant moment. The overload of information is making his head spin. “When you say it like that it makes it seem all innocent.”

“Not at all, but it makes sense.”

“I just figured the nogistune went after me because I’m weak.”

“That’s not true—“ Scott shakes his head and plants his hand on Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing hard while Stiles gnaws on a thumbnail and resists the urge to bounce around on the balls of his feet. “Dude, you’re definitely the strongest person I know.”

Stiles replies with a tight smile and rests his hand on top of Scott’s on his shoulder, thanking his best friend for the words of encouragement.  

“There’s something I’d like to try,” Deaton says, regarding each person in the room then settles on Stiles, a hopeful yet secretive glint in the Druid’s eyes. “I want to confirm my theory on whether you can take life.”

Stiles gives Deaton a look filled with nervous skepticism, not sure he likes where that idea is headed. “ _How_ , exactly?”

Deaton disappears into the boarding room labeled CATS. Stiles’ eyes feel like they’re bulging from their sockets as he glances at his friends with a mute, ‘What the fuck!’ When Deaton returns moments later, he’s cradling an old, malnurished Siamese with huge patches of fur missing and one ear chewed off. He strokes the cat’s spine, keeping it calm as he nears the werewolves, but it seems too far gone to care all that much, though it whines low as if in pain.

Stiles skitters back a step with his hands held up. “Uh, I didn’t sign up for this. Whatever _this_ is…” he waves around and points at the helpless creature. Pulls a face that lets everyone know just how disgusted he is with Deaton’s so-called _theory_. “I’m not killing a cat. Do you realize what sort of emotional trauma that will cause on my psyche? Can’t you just give me a cockroach or a spider? Those are easy to kill; they don’t have a soul— Or wait, let me just heal the cat! I find that a win-win situation, right? I don’t have nightmares about murdering helpless fur balls and the cat gets to live.”

“Stiles,” Scott tries cajoling, “Deaton planned on euthanizing the cat tonight anyway. It’s a stray and doesn’t have a home. He’s not going to last long. You would be doing the animal a favor.”

“Nope. I don’t see that as a favor, dude. Every life deserves a second chance. Put it up for adoption on one of those local Facebook pages. Hell, I’m sure my dad would prefer a cat to a dog anyway. You can even leave them home alone for days at a time.” With a stern shake of his head, Stiles adds for emphasis on his unashamed disapproval of the pack cornering him, “What if I make it worse? What if the cat bursts into flames because I think about it too hard and then those flames get so big the clinic catches on fire and we all die in a shit storm of _fire._ ”

Silence. Everyone stares at Stiles like he literally just spewed diarrhea from his mouth.

Surprisingly, it’s Derek that butts in with a flat tone, “Just do whatever it is you did last night, only the opposite. I didn’t catch on fire, so I think it’s safe to say you’re not a mage with a pyro fetish.”

“It’s not—“ Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose then resorts to glaring at the ceiling rather than at his friends. “It’s easier for you to say: ‘Do it. Easy peezy lemon squeezy,’ but it’s _me_ that has to deal with it afterwards. I’m the one who has to face the music that I have god-like abilities and that shouldn’t be happening. With great power comes great responsibility, which is totally true, and I don’t think I can handle all that responsibility—”

“I don’t think you have a choice,” Derek interjects, and Stiles has an impulse to punch the Sourwolf – in the balls!

Lydia fires daggers at Derek with a tight-lipped glare, and then says to Stiles, “You won’t have to go through it alone.”

Stiles lifts his hands, shaking his head with a firm _no_. “Sorry, I can’t—” He spins on his heel and practically runs for the exit with no intention of turning back to see the disappointment or whatever reaction his friends may be directing his way. This is too much information at once for Stiles to process. He needs time, he needs food, and he desperately needs his life to start making sense for once.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse my blatant dislike of Starbucks coffee. I'm a coffee snob and their beans just make me sad.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm so, so sorry it took me almost a MONTH to get this chapter out. Yikes. Life has been crazy busy with going out of town a lot and gearing up to adopt a Husky, which took longer than expected. Also, in the middle of editing, I didn't like the direction the chapter was going, so I overhauled it. 
> 
> Still, hope you enjoy! Thanks for sticking around. :)

A good few hours of blowing shit up and shooting insurgents playing Call of Duty became the best therapy Stiles could get his hands on. Surrounded by empty take out cartons and slurping on a Route 44 orange cream slush from Sonic. Stomach is full and brain’s buzzing from too much sugar in one sitting; reminds himself to hide the evidence and leftovers before his dad gets home. Stiles ignores the calls and texts from Scott, Lydia, and especially Derek. He’s surprised they haven’t busted down his door yet, though he knows it’s bound to happen sooner or later.

He’s not pissed at them or even at Deaton and his crazy plan to kill a cat, a _cat_ for crying out loud. That’s where there should be a line drawn in some moral law of sand. He’s never been fond of cats – more of a dog person, which he finds ironic – but he’s not about to stalk the neighborhood and start killing off feral strays. Hell, Stiles isn’t even pissed at the whole FUBAR situation that’s become his life. Just – he’s overwhelmed, like he’s tried cramming an entire year’s worth of trig homework in one night and his brain feels like a too-ripe avocado – brown and mushy. He wants nothing else other than solitude and a serious absence of thinking for a while.

Too bad his hyperactive brain won’t allow him that respite, even in the midst of playing intense shoot-em-up-bang-bang video games. Contemplated running or heading over to the field and practice shooting goals, but he’s more tempted to start raiding the kitchen cabinets for whatever alcohol there and dull his senses. His dad tries keeping the supply a bare minimum, considering what overindulgence brings, but he can’t completely give up an ice cold lager to help him decompress after a particularly hard day. Without a doubt he’d notice if one or three went missing.

It’s not the front door that’s busted down when someone finally comes around. Instead Derek opts for the stealthy and vaguely disturbing approach of climbing through Stiles’ bedroom window, which isn’t surprising in the least. No telling how long Derek was outside waiting for the Sheriff to leave for errands. Somehow Stiles isn’t startled, mostly annoyed, and reconsiders lining the windows with mountain ash, more so just to watch them face plant into an invisible force field and give him an opportunity to laugh his ass off.

“Breaking and entering in the Sheriff’s home – not a smart move bud,” Stiles says without looking away from the game. He rounds a corner and spots another rebel, shoots the nameless enemy in the face and keeps going. Slurps on the slush wedged between his thighs without missing a beat.

Derek moves around the room with a self-assured stride, much like a well-worn t-shirt that’s super soft with the promise of holes. Relaxed. Fitting. “Scott and Lydia are worried about you,” he supplies as he straddles the desk chair, leaning his forearms across the backrest. He’s not wearing his leather jacket, but he still has that smooth as butter, woodsy scent.

“What? Scott’s not brave enough to confront his best friend on his own, so he has to get his beta to do it for him? Is that how this works in the pack hierarchy now? I must have missed that memo.”

Derek sighs, doesn’t even give Stiles the patented scowling eyebrows. “No. I’m just the only one who will challenge you when you’re like this. Scott won’t admit it, but he’s afraid of you.” He looks down at his phone when it chimes. “They’re on their way.”

Stiles sniffs as he glances at Derek, eyes narrowed. “Is this an intervention? Last I checked I was just enjoying a peaceful, lazy Saturday afternoon killing people. Care to join me? It’s quite liberating, actually. Definitely not better than sex, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Never pegged you for an emotional eater,” Derek comments, lifting his chin toward the fast food cartons and bags littering the bed around Stiles, along with the oversized drink he’s sipped on for the past three hours.

Stiles pauses the game and slouches against the pillows behind him, stretching his arms high above his head in a stretch before ruffling his hair into an even messier mop. Starts fiddling with the pendant dangling from his neck, mostly out of a new habit that he’s conscious of the real reason he’s wearing a funny piece of jewelry than mindless fidgeting. “I’m testing out a theory. Maybe with this whole self-healing mojo, I’ll never gain weight. So far it’s not working. I feel like I’m about to explode from the copious amounts of salt and sugar I consumed. My fingers are swollen twice their size.”

Derek actually snorts out a laugh, which is light and infectious and the muscles of Stiles’ mouth pull back before he knows it. Even as Derek is a highly guarded asshole on most occasions, Stiles admits the guy can be fun to hang around. He’s enjoying Derek’s company more and more, not to mention the unspoken pact of loyalty they share. These moments when nothing needs to be said, but they watch out for one another and provide support in their unique methods.

“How did you know where I was when the hunters kidnapped me?”

“At the right place at the right time, I guess.” Derek shrugs, licks his lips. “I grew up protecting those woods, so I still feel a sense of obligation to watch over the preserve. I knew the hunters were there and I wanted to get a feel for why they suddenly showed up.”

“Should I be worried about them? Like, do you think they’ll strike again?”

“They’re gone,” Derek says with a gratifying flash of teeth. “I contacted Argent since Beacon Hills is still under his family’s jurisdiction. Seems like these guys are actually honorable, though clueless, and they packed up camp and left early this morning.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re in the clear,” Stiles realizes, scrunching his face. “There’s always the chance a rogue group comes along and doesn’t give a flying trapeze about the code.”

“True.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters, while ruffling his hair again, more out of an anxious tick than anything, “Because that would be too easy. Is this what it’s like for you? Always looking over your shoulder and fearing the next attack?”

Derek gives Stiles a disenchanted lift of his shoulders. “It’s my life. I just deal with it.”

“I want to tell my dad,” Stiles admits suddenly, watching Derek for his reaction, but he only gives a brief nod with his mouth set tight. “Don’t you think he deserves to know? Still, I’m scared what it’ll do to him…” He frets with the agate stone again, rubs his fingers over the engraved runes and lets out a dense sigh.

He _hates_ lying to his dad, hated that he felt the need to do it after Scott was bitten, even if it supposedly kept him safe. That’s bullshit and Stiles damn well knows already the repercussions of keeping his dad in the dark. The suffocating burden of deceiving his dad left and right will never compare to the liberation he felt once everything was exposed after Jennifer Blake. Now they have another ally in the ongoing war to keep Beacon Hills safe, and Stiles _likes_ his dad aware of what he’s up against rather than throwing himself in a fight he has no idea how to finish.

Besides, the Sheriff can kick some serious ass, and Stiles appreciates having that arsenal on his side. Likes that his dad is showing him how to use a gun, even if he still won’t let Stiles carry one. Baby steps.

Derek watches him closely, stares at the stone around Stiles’ neck with mild interest. “It’s been helpful with him knowing what’s really going on around here. Besides, he doesn’t seem to suspect I’m some deranged and murderous criminal anymore.” He slips an accusatory glare that lacks the fire it used to when they first met.

“Nah, my dad likes you. He won’t admit it, but I know because he hasn’t threatened to shoot you lately,” Stiles teases with a lopsided smirk.

“I’m definitely trying not to give him a reason to.” He tilts his head toward the bedroom door then says, “Scott and Lydia are here.”

Seconds later, the front door slams shut and Lydia calls out Stiles’ name in a maternal, but disparaging tone. He hears Scott mumbling something before they’re stomping up the stairs. Stiles saves the level on CoD and makes room for them on his bed by scooting all the trash in a corner on the floor. Receives a skeptical stare from Lydia when she emerges, muttering something about fearing what’s underneath his bed. Then she’s cozy beside Stiles, lying on her stomach and feet swinging in the air behind her. Like a wounded and frightened puppy in a shelter, Scott lingers at the door, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans and eyes all doughy and pleading.

True Alpha that one. Stiles snorts. “I’m not mad, bro. Really. C’mon…” He pats the spot on his other side and holds out a game controller. “Mario Kart?”

Scott beams drunkenly like a kid’s first time at Disney Land, and hops on the bed, jostling Stiles and Lydia into each other, eliciting an exasperated, yet mirthful murmur from Lydia. She situates on her side and rests her head on Stiles’ spread out legs, winding her hair in a lazy twirl around her finger while she watches the boys play.

“Are you okay, man?” Scott asks once the race starts on the game.

Stiles nudges Scott’s shoulder and grins, mostly because his kart speeds past Scott’s, leaving him in the dust. “Yeah, just trying to figure out everything all at once and I’m giving myself a headache and I want to tell my dad, but I don’t know how.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Lydia says, but not in a way that makes Stiles agitated, as if being berated. Her tone is confident, warm, with her hand gently on Stiles’ shin serving as a ground. “You always do.”

Stiles looks away from the game long enough to realize Derek’s gone. Vanished like some apparition. Didn’t see or hear him when he left, but smells leather and the Irish Spring soap Derek uses. It’s not rude, Derek leaving without a word, not anymore at least. Oddly, it falls into the comfortable rhythm of life within the pack and Stiles is okay with that. Besides, Derek no doubt has better shit to do than sit around and watch teenagers play video games all day.

Hours after several rounds of beating Scott’s ass on Mario Kart and obnoxious laughter and wrestling, they end up in another cuddling pile of jumbled limbs, lightly dozing the late afternoon away. The sun’s setting and bathing Stiles’ bedroom in a complacent, almost heavenly glow. Lydia’s reading – or silently judging – a random Spider-Man comic left on the nightstand, her head propped on his chest. He’s lolled into heavy, contented breathing with the weight of her against him and Scott curled up like a sunbathing cat at his feet. Both Lydia and Scott haven’t brought up Stiles’ newly acquired skills or what happened at the vet clinic. Stiles is grateful. For an entire afternoon, he felt normal again. He could be a teenager with no worries other than junior year starting in a week and if he has a chance of scoring big on the team, if not at least getting _off_ the bench more than once.

Stiles’ dad comes home just after sunset, trunk full of groceries and lumber and supplies to repair the rotting back deck the coming week he has a few days off. He and Stiles plan on completing the project together in hopes of some long overdue father-son bonding before school starts along with the inevitable events of bat shit crazy supernatural threats that will take up whatever time’s not devoted to homework.

Scott and Stiles help unload the lumber, while Lydia grabs some groceries along with the Sheriff. He invites Scott and Lydia to stay for dinner – paprika chicken – but Lydia says she’s supposed to meet her mom at the mall for their traditional wardrobe shopping before the school year begins. A man knows better than to interfere with a woman’s retail therapy. She plants a soft kiss on Stiles’ cheek before leaving. Scott hangs back a little longer, gulping down a glass of water while eyeing Stiles over the rim with that blatant and silent look that means, _Tell him!_ Stiles shushes him with a tight-lipped glare then sobers when his dad enters the kitchen with the remaining bags of groceries.

He catches the unspoken exchange between Stiles and Scott. “What are you two scheming now?”

“Nothing. Scott was just leaving s’all,” Stiles replies and shoves Scott toward the door. “He has important werewolf stuff to do. You know how it is, alpha responsibilities and all. Actually, buddy, don’t you have a date with Kira tonight?”

“Uh huh,” the Sheriff murmurs, rolling his eyes. Typical adult peevishness toward the younger generation, as if he was _never_ one himself.

Once Scott’s gone, Stiles’ dad practically corners him, pressing for answers to whatever questions are plaguing the Sheriff’s mind. “What’s up, son?”

“The ceiling—“ He can’t help it, sarcasm is more natural than breathing.

“Stiles,” his dad warns with a longsuffering sigh. He pops the cap off a Blue Moon and settles his hip against the counter, giving Stiles an expectant, yet patient stare. Something Stiles knows he won’t like the sound of has his dad worried. “Darren, the manager at The Beacon Market mentioned your Jeep was left in the parking lot all night Friday. He was about to have it towed before someone fitting Derek’s description drove away with it. What’s that all about?”

Stiles hides his face behind an open cupboard door, stuffing cereal boxes inside the cabinet and then rearranging them about three times. Then he squeezes his eyes shut when the urge to spill out a lie stings on his tongue. Something he’s grown so accustomed to that it feels like a second skin. But he’s sick of all the deceit and the sharp, nagging pain it brings in his gut. His dad deserves better than that.

He blurts out, “I was kidnapped. Some hunters decided to drag me to the preserve and question me.”

“About…?”

“Uh,” Stiles stutters, and immediately his hand goes for the stone around his neck. Doesn’t realize he did it until after the fact and drops his hand, as if burned. “Um, it had to do with the nogistune. They wanted to make sure I wasn’t still… you know.”

_Coward!_ He _still_ can’t get out the entire story. What is wrong with him? This is his _dad_ for Christ’s sake, who has surprisingly soaked up every supernatural incident without shitting a brick or losing it completely. But he can’t stop thinking about the type of reaction he’ll receive when he finally tells his dad he possesses some huge and powerful ancient Celtic magic. Not only will his dad worry, but there’s also a huge possibility he _will_ shit that brick. It’s bad enough when his dad found out about the nogistune and wrestled with the repercussions of the chaos the spirit left in its wake, almost losing his son in the process. That nearly ruined him and Stiles can’t put his dad through that again. Just digging up that extremely fucked up and tragic time leaves Stiles with a bitter taste in his mouth, the acid in his stomach slithering up his esophagus in a slow burn.

“That was over four months ago. Did they hurt you?” Stiles shakes his head, but his dad is not easily convinced as he furrows his brow, frowning. “I thought Mr. Argent made other hunters aware the threat was over.”

“Some are not all black and white with the code. I guess I fall into that gray area.” Stiles shrugs, grabbing his bottom lip between his teeth. “But they didn’t hurt me, I promise. Derek came before the party could get rowdy.”

There’s no need mentioning Derek almost dying on Stiles’ bathroom floor.

“That doesn’t appease my anxiety one bit.”

“What? About Derek?”

“Yes and no. But I’m glad he was there at the right time.”

“He’s a good guy, dad, though socially inept 95% of the time. Still, he’s only ever wanted to protect Beacon Hills.”

The Sheriff massages the back of his neck and concedes. After a long pause of staring at Stiles, gauging him and building up what looks like another mammoth pile of worry, he prods, “You’re not telling me everything, Stiles. What is it?”

Opening and closing his mouth, Stiles is speechless. He rolls his tongue around in his mouth, feels the weight of the words that want to form, but they won’t come out. He plays with the agate stone for a strained moment, avoids the disquiet splashed all over his dad’s face. Wonders just how he can reveal the tattoos without freaking out the Sheriff, but figures might as well rip the Band-Aid off rather than painstakingly slow and pulling out hairs along the way. His dad notices the stone as Stiles keeps fiddling with it, and bewilderment twists his face, deepens the aging lines around his eyes and mouth. Just as Stiles works up the gall to talk, jaw hanging open, his dad’s emergency pager goes off. Well shit.

Swearing under his breath, he reads the message and then curses again. “Looks like I need to go in,” his dad huffs, suddenly fatigued as his shoulders sag with the prospect of another all-nighter. “There’re reports of random fires set off around town.”

Stiles perks up, heart pumping faster with the eagerness of something thrilling and dangerous. He feeds off it, the adrenaline firing like pistons in a V12 engine revved up, making him feel _alive_. “Where? Can I go?”

His dad shoots him the _official police business, stay out of it_ glower and Stiles’ excitement nosedives with a long-winded moan. He’s not afraid of showing his disappointment of his dad popping that balloon. Not that he won’t try and sneak into town and sate the curiosity bug biting him.

“Rain check on this talk, though. When I get back, you better be ready to tell me what’s going on.” His dad gives him that cop lookwhich promises weeks of hard labor and grounding as punishment. “We promised each other no more secrets. And don’t let me catch you out there investigating these fires, either. Stay home.”

“Yes. I know. Scout’s honor, I promise.” Stiles crosses his fingers over his heart before gathering his dad in a hug, relishing in the strength and fervency his dad exudes without even trying. It is _home_ and everything Stiles loves. “Be careful.”

After his dad leaves, Stiles finishes putting away the groceries and cleans up the trash in his bedroom. He piddles around the house for another hour or two, boredom sinking in along with the urgency to find out more about the fires. He battles back and forth, grabbing his keys and phone, but then setting them down again. Only to repeat the process about three times before finally texting Derek – see what he might know.

**Fires are springing up around town. Hear anything? Give me something. My dad threatened bodily harm is I step outside the house.**

Over thirty minutes pass with no response, which is odd behavior for Derek. He’s always prompt with his texts, if not blunt and concise. Stiles taps the question mark symbol several times and then sends. Nothing. He’s about to send a text to Scott, but remembers he’ll be busy with Kira. The sort of busy Stiles doesn’t want to linger on. He grumbles at his phone and stuffs it in the back pocket of his jeans, sulking into the kitchen for some dinner. Freshly stocked and brimming with endless possibilities, Stiles isn’t craving a damn thing that’s offered. Several minutes of opening and closing the fridge and cabinets, he opts for boxed mac-n-cheese, the gluten and dairy free kind that smells a lot like feet, and oddly tastes better than the Kraft brand. His phone rings with Lydia’s designated tone of “Elastic Heart” by Sia, as he’s staring at the water, willing it to hurry up and boil.

“Yo, Lyds,” he answers, still gazing at the hot water on the brink of bubbling, stomach rumbling in response to the agonizingly slow art of cooking pasta.

“Stiles,” Lydia gasps out, her voice hitching with a deep, gut-twisting sob. “Stiles!”

“Lydia? What—“ His spine is ramrod straight. He grips the phone tighter, knuckles aching under the pressure. Lungs are frozen, heart pounding hard and heavy in his neck, his ears, threatening to break ribs and fly out of his chest. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong, Lydia? What’s wrong?”

“Where’s your dad?” Lydia manages through a hoarse whisper. “Stiles, where is he?”

_Dad—_

He looks around, blinking the kitchen into focus with a sudden, whitening clarity as the adrenaline and terror soars high and he feels like he’s floating high high high until he hits the ceiling and crashes back down. “He’s…he left for an emergency at work a couple hours ago. Lydia, what’s wrong? What happened? Does it have to do with the random fires starting around town?”

She doesn’t answer, or can’t with her breathing fraying in between cries that leaves Stiles’ gut twisting into knots that’s a lot like knives stabbing him in all directions.

“Where are you? I’ll come to you—“

“No!” Her tone is an abrupt contradiction from seconds earlier, stern and measured, which doesn’t put Stiles at ease. Only scares him. “Where’s your dad? Is he at the station?”

“Yes, maybe, I think so. I can call him,” he forces out through a throat that’s too tight, voice quivering like a tiny earthquake that rattles, but leaves no damage. He drags a hand over his hair, tangles his fingers at the crown and pulls. Squeezes his eyes shut. His vision is swimming when he reopens them. “Lydia…what’s happened? Is my dad—“

“Call your dad. Meet me at the station.”

She hangs up and Stiles can’t move or breathe for several seconds, nerveless fingers no longer capable of holding his phone. It clatters on the floor, no doubt breaking the screen, but Stiles doesn’t care. Doesn’t really notice. All he can hear and feel is the rushing beat of his heart, breath shallow in his lungs, his chest on the brink of collapse. He has the sudden impulse to throw up, tastes the acid tinged with over-processed fast food and orange flavored syrup covering the back of his tongue.

Why would Lydia ask about his dad? Unless—

“Oh, _fuck_ —“ He rushes out of the kitchen, trips over the coffee table and stumbles toward the door where the Jeep’s keys are in the silly ceramic bowl he made in the 5th grade on the console table. Completely forgets his phone and call his dad as he makes a strict path for the front door with every intention of driving over a hundred miles an hour to the station.

_Dad’s okay. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. It’s nothing. He’s okay. He’s okay._

Peter’s cavalier stare meets Stiles when he swings the door wide, the werewolf’s lips spread in a thin, mirthless smile. Stiles gasps out a curse as he backpedals to keep from running into the older man’s chest, almost falling on his ass in the process. He white-knuckles the door jam, keys gripped so tight he feels the metal digging in his palm. His heart is seconds away from shattering his teeth and beating its way out of his mouth. Peter is like an itch that you can’t get rid, persistent and irritating until it almost drives you on the brink of madness, anything to delete the nuisance from existence.

“Hello Stiles,” Peter drawls, calm and casual as if he’s here on a friendly social visit, about to whip out the board games and popcorn. He elongates the ‘S’ at the end, sounding like the snake he is. He ducks his head, arms crossed behind his back in a casual, yet vaguely sinister stance, and looks at Stiles under the fall of his lashes. He doesn’t even have to _try_ and he freaks Stiles out; the fine hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand on end.

For whatever reason, Peter here is _not_ a good sign. Based off the sly smirk painting Peter’s face in a handsome, but morbid picture, eyes flashing _red_ , Stiles’ heart plummets as he realizes he’s in a huge bag of shit that’s seconds away from hitting the fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah! Cliffhanger. I'm definitely busting my butt to make sure the next chapter is out sooner than this one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture in this chapter. Lots of hurt Stiles. You were warned.

Peter’s an alpha _again_.

Well, isn’t that convenient.

Stiles has two options, though neither are aiming in his favor. He can talk his way around Peter or try fighting him and ultimately fail at _both_. Not if, but when. But Stiles is a stubborn SOB, hardheaded to the core, and he can’t just roll over and submit, no matter the physical damage it may cause him in the end. Peter scares the hell out of him – gross understatement – and Stiles knows he can’t avoid giving the werewolf the satisfaction of knowing how much. His heartbeat gives it all away.    

“I don’t have time for this – whatever you want,” Stiles snaps, tries sneaking his hand behind and fumbles around until his fingers touch the homemade ceramic bowl. It won’t do much damage, barely scratching the surface, but it’ll be enough of a distraction for Stiles to run.

Peter steps over the front door’s threshold. Forces Stiles back. Fuck this; it’s long overdue that Stiles line the house with mountain ash. Peter tuts, eyeing the makeshift weapon Stiles grips in his hand, actually has the audacity to look wounded by the idea of Stiles attacking him. He grabs the bowl and twists it out of Stiles’ hand, tossing it on the floor without regard.

Mouth agape, Stiles stares at the broken pieces before swiveling his gaze back at Peter. “I _made_ that you son of a bitch,” he barks, obviously more pissed that he didn’t have the opportunity to break it on Peter’s face.  

The sanguine smile spreads wider with descended canines resting over Peter’s lips, his eyes burning red. Stiles vaguely wonders who Peter killed to gain alpha status; a fleeting moment of panic as he thinks about Scott. The thought is squashed like a bug underfoot when Peter leans in close, but not touching, and sniffs Stiles’ neck. Moans deep and loud, the sound vibrating within Stiles’ chest _._ He shudders, every muscle quivering with terror and resentment and adrenaline.

“Do you realize what you smell like?”

Stiles gulps. “I hear it’s a pungent but savory odor.”

“Power, Stiles. So much it’s _intoxicating_ , and it’s all wrapped up in a puny package of frail skin and bones. Almost makes me glad I didn’t bite you when I had the chance. No doubt your power would far exceed any other supernatural being and we can’t have that, now can we?”

Horror tickles and burns at the back of his throat. Stiles swallows hard to keep from throwing up. “Where’s Scott? Don’t you dare—“

Peter presses his index finger against his lips. “Hush, Stiles, he’s fine. I have no interest in him.” He peels out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes for more effect. Then he looks at Stiles with a malicious and anticipating intent. “Take off the pendant.”

“How did you—“ Stiles clamps his mouth in a firm line, breathes in deep through his nose. “Ah, fuck you, Peter. I’m not doing _anything_ for you,” he spits out with a tongue full of venom. “And you can’t touch me unless I do, can you? Ha! You can’t lay a hand on little ole’ frail and puny me. Is that why you murdered an alpha, just so you could come after me? I’m touched.”

“You’re right,” Peter says with no hint of defeat in his voice, only a tinge more arrogance. “But I can hurt your pack. Scott. Lydia. Derek. Or better yet, your dad. I hear he’s busy putting out literal fires tonight. I’m sure it would be easy to find him and tear his throat out. Or maybe I’ll just trap him inside a burning building. Let him die agonizingly slow and it will be ruled as an accident. The poor Sheriff.”

Panic seizes Stiles and drives a serrated ice pick through his lungs. He should've known Peter would use that tactic. He can’t stop the chill that rocks his core, and he stumbles back a step. It may be an empty threat, but when a psychopath is the one making those threats, there’s no room for negotiation. He knows Peter has officially stepped over the edge and into full psychopathic mode when mentioning “fire” and “trapped” in the same sentence doesn’t phase him in the least. That alone sends Stiles reeling with terror.

“Your choice, Stiles.”   

Still, Stiles doesn’t relent so easy. Later he’ll account it to his sheer abundance of brave stupidity in the face of danger, but the need to fight Peter tooth and nail keeps him from giving Peter what he wants. He juts his chin forward, feigning defiance. “And how do I know you’re not just spewing bullshit like you normally do? How do I know you won’t hurt them just for kicks?”

Peter pouts and Stiles wants to punch his teeth out. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not completely heartless.”

Stiles coughs out a derisive laugh. “Yeah! Right! I’ll believe that once I marry Jennifer Aniston.”

“Stiles,” Peter says slowly, blood red irises brightening. “Take off the pendant. Don’t give me a reason to hurt your friends and only surviving family. Don’t make them blame _you_ for whatever loss you can easily prevent tonight.”

That was a hard blow and Stiles can’t hide the flinch, the tightening of his shoulders, hands clenching. His voice trembles, pitch rising, when he counters, “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Peter doesn’t give him an answer. Just holds out his hand, palm up, waiting. The war raging inside Stiles continues for another few silent seconds before the rational side wins over the other screaming at him to keep fighting. He can’t expect to win when against supernatural strength and speed, magical healing powers or not, and he can’t risk getting the pack or his dad involved in this mess. Stiles would never forgive himself for endangering them.  

Once the necklace is thrown aside, Peter fists his hand in Stiles’ hair and the other encircles his throat, forcing him backwards until the sofa knocks against the backs of his knees. He gasps as the werewolf’s hand tightens around his neck, his arms pin wheeling to maintain balance, but Peter keeps him from toppling over the arm. He’d prefer falling on his ass than letting Peter touch him.     

“Good boy,” the werewolf purrs, his face nuzzling behind Stiles’ ear when he pulls Stiles’ head further back, exposing the taut line of his neck. He inhales deep, takes in whatever scent is driving him wild and needy and forces a teeth chattering shudder from Stiles. He snaps his eyes shut when he feels Peter’s claws poised over his carotid artery. Breath stills.  

“I want to eat up your fear, it smells so delectable.”    

“Screw…you.” Stiles swallows around claws that can easily shred his throat wide open, his voice coming out like he’s screamed for hours and hours, almost as if he’s already geared up for what Peter may have in store. The idea frightens Stiles. But he can heal. He can get through this. It’s okay.

“Idle threats, coming from you? Where’s the spitfire I know is in there?”

“Trying to keep my family alive, asshole,” Stiles retorts with a slight jerk of his head when Peter gets too close again, sniffing Stiles like a possessive animal – an animal that has lost all sense of his sanity a long time ago. “ _Stop._ ”

“Stop? Why would I stop? You’re mine now.”

Stiles screws his face, incredulous and disgusted. He shoves at Peter with a surprising burst of strength, ignores the sharp sting of claws as they scrape across his neck, breaking skin. “What the fuck, man? What do you _want_?”

Peter stills, body tensing as he sniffs the air. A pleasing hum rises from his chest as his lips curve back over elongated canines. Eyes widen with glee and Stiles staggers back a step, gaining a little more distance from the maniac standing in his living room. Whatever thought’s going through Peter’s mind, Stiles is so far from afraid of knowing.

“Daddy’s home,” Peter breathes out just before that distinct rumble of the cruiser’s engine turns in the driveway.   

_Nonononono—_

Without regard for the wall of super-human strength and sharp teeth and claws standing in his way and his own safety, Stiles lunges for the door with protecting his dad the only thought firing in his brain. The action is futile, he knows it, but instinct takes over. Instinct full of frenzy feeding off of adrenaline and the need to protect. He’s not surprised when the floor flies up to meet his face when his legs are swiped out from underneath him, but it still hurts like a bitch. He doesn’t have a chance to brace his hands for the fall. His chin smacks _hard_ against the hardwood, teeth slamming into his tongue and blood pools in his mouth. Stars burst bright behind his eyes, rendering him useless and blind for those few precious seconds that Stiles _needs_ to steer his dad clear of Peter and whatever evil-take-over-the-world-madman goals he’s scheming.  

He spits and blood splatters on the floor. He scrambles – flailing around is more like it – to stand. Fails and tries again. His shoes squeak as he struggles for purchase, with every intention of running for the door again, despite his complete lack of speed and coordination. Peter proves again his superiority in that area by grabbing one of Stiles’ ankles and drags him backwards. Stiles can’t help it – he screams. He screams because this moment reminds him too heavily of the nogistune hauling him by the bear trap within his own subconscious. Nightmares that became too vivid, unbearable, and consuming every single sane memory and thought. It takes a moment too long for him to realize he’s not in that cellar with the spirit, but his fervency to fight off his enemy doesn’t recede. Only seems to heighten, because this time his dad’s life is threatened.

Stiles thrashes his limbs like a wild, caged animal with every hope of hitting flesh and dislodging Peter’s hold, only rewarded with claws embedding deep in his ankle. He screams again, momentarily subdued as Peter flips him on his back, and places a hand flat on his chest to hold him down. Stiles swings a fist around, clipping Peter on the jaw, but barely makes a dent, just angers him. Peter growls in his face and bunches his hand in Stiles’ shirt and hauls him up as the Sheriff comes crashing through the doorway.

“Stiles? What the— _Stiles_!”

“Dad! Dad! No, dad… _go_! Get out of—”

He chokes, gagging, when Peter’s hand clamps down on his windpipe and squeezes hard until his vision grays around the edges. He sees his dad un-holster his sidearm just as he’s thrown across the room like a rag doll, colliding with a bookshelf and crumbling on the floor. His dad yells out something unintelligible. Stiles doesn’t feel so much the jarring impact, just the cluster of aches pulsating in tune with his heartbeat. His senses fade out then come back, dulled and thick like crawling through molasses, when he hears a gunshot, hears his dad shout again, and the lights finally go out.

\----- 

Sometimes consciousness is not worth the effort, particularly when Stiles wakes up with Peter’s leering face inches from his own. He yelps and jerks away, crawling out from under the werewolf’s overbearing shadow. Can only move a few inches before his arms are pulled high above his head in a constricting hold, sharp claws digging into his wrists. He kicks out, pounding on unforgiving muscle until his body is slammed against something solid and metal behind him with a bone cracking ferocity. Air spills from his lungs in a violent wheeze. Tears spring out the corners of his eyes when he squeezes them shut. His back and ribs feel bruised, squeezing too tight and jabbing vulnerable organs. Breath catches below vocal chords, his throat closing with the sudden fire piercing his chest.

Something is broken. Yep, something – a rib or two – is definitely broken as a jagged spike literally _stabs_ his right lung when he shifts underneath Peter.     

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes out and clamps down on his tongue to suppress a wrecked cry.

“Such language,” Peter mocks.

Stiles opens his eyes, mouth slack, panting. Then he curls his lip in a silent snarl, nostrils flaring, and Peter’s mouth twists into a nefarious grin. A revolting shiver dances up and down Stiles’ spine as blood red eyes shine before him. Long fangs inches from his face, hot breath brushing along skin dotted with goose bumps. His other hand wraps around Stiles’ throat, barely squeezing, but still a heavy reminder that he can snap his neck with a simple flick of his wrist.

“Mmmm,” the werewolf’s voice rumbles, “So pretty underneath me like a wriggling, dying mouse caught in a trap.”

“Get _off_ me…you sick…bastard,” Stiles grinds out with every goal of a lethal bite, but it comes out scratchy and weak. He’s not healing; why the _hell_ isn’t he healing? Now would be a fantastic time for this damn magic to work.

With a light chuckle, Peter clicks his tongue before nuzzling Stiles just below his earlobe, releasing puffs of moist heat. He inhales, gathering Stiles’ scent before licking a wet, sloppy trail up the side of his face. He chokes on a repulsed cry and squirms beneath Peter, irritates wounds that are _still_ not healing. This is seriously on a huge epic scale of _not good, really bad_ shit.

“I smell Derek all over you,” Peter murmurs in his ear with the faintest hint of jealousy, and Stiles stiffens. His wrists are released and too-warm hands snake underneath his shirt, sharp nails grazing along his ribs and his muscles quiver. He chokes on a hard gasp when Peter digs his nails into tender flesh, running deep scores down his sides. Acid churns, threatening to come up when Peter laps at his bloody fingers as if he just finished a scrumptious meal.

“Son of a bitch! Get _away_ from him!”

Stiles’ heart throbs like a feral beast writhing in its cage. He twists and jerks in Peter’s hold, desperate for a glimpse of his dad, wherever he is, hoping he’s unharmed. He can’t see anything beyond the broad, powerful lines of Peter’s shoulders and his smug face. Stiles has the impulse to throw up, disgusted by the werewolf’s presence and the excruciating pain lancing from within his chest and outward.

“Please—“

Peter draws closer. Stiles can feel his grin spreading wider against his cheek. “Please… _what_?” His tone drips with a craving at hearing Stiles beg, and as much as Stiles wants to challenge Peter in every possible way, he can’t risk his dad’s life for a pointless spat of defiance.

“Let him go,” Stiles rasps, lips quivering, feels the weighted resonation building in his abdomen with the rise of a panic attack. Breath catching, he adds, “Please…just—just let my dad go. I-I’ll do anything you want.”

The werewolf hums, the vibration deep and gruff along Stiles’ skin, and he knows Peter won’t give in just because Stiles supplicates. He winces, closing his eyes with the burdening load of forfeit.

“Tempting, really _really_ tempting. Especially when you beg like that, but he made the mistake of coming home too soon. Those fires I started were supposed to keep him distracted long enough for me to take care of you. He knows too much now. You know how that is, Stiles. I can’t have him and the whole Sheriff’s department on my tail when the fun hasn’t even started.”

That small instance of paralyzing panic turns into fury fueled by Stiles’ terror. The fear for his dad’s life completely overrides any other thought. Stiles releases a belly-deep scream and fights for all its worth to escape Peter’s hold on him. He yells for his dad, but he still can’t see beyond Peter’s stoic gaze and towering body.

A grip around his throat traps air from leaving his lungs. Still, he struggles. Growling and kicking, he feels blood trickle down his arms from Peter’s clawed hand restraining his wrists. Then he can’t breathe at all. He chokes, lungs aching for oxygen that can’t move past the tight constriction around his windpipe. It _hurts_. Not to mention his still broken ribs shift and scrape against ragged ends, like a red-hot poker twisting in his chest.

“Stop! Stop! You’re killing him,” his dad roars, faint sounds of struggle not far away. “Stop! Please, just…stop! Let him go! Take…me…’stead!”

_No, dad, no! No!_

“He doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know what you’re capable of.” Peter’s chortle grates like nails running along a chalkboard before he releases Stiles. He flails like a fish out of water, heaving gulps of air, throat raw and burning. “I’d love to see the look of horror on his face when he finds out about you, but we’ll save that for later. I have something _very_ special in store for you and I’ve waited long enough.”

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Stiles lets a strangled cry rip from his dry, cracked lips. He feels like that fish tossed back in the water, his vision narrowing to a whirling kaleidoscope of shapes and colors as he’s lifted high in the air by claws rooted deep underneath his clavicles. The pain is so hot and fierce, he can’t even scream. Can’t breathe. Can’t see. Can’t _think_ beyond the scorch of Peter’s claws tearing through muscle and tendon, scraping bone. When he’s hurled like he’s no more than a small pebble skittering across the surface of a lake, he drifts on a weightless cloud until his body slams against a solid surface, the force vibrating throughout his body. His mouth opens in a silent cry, his eyes wide. Tastes blood coating his throat, his tongue, as he slides down the wall, collapsing on the floor in a boneless pile on his side. Right wrist is broken; he knows by the way he landed on it, crushed beneath him.

He doesn’t move – _can’t_ is a better word for it – though he can see his dad now. Kneeling in the far corner across the room, hands bound behind him, clothes dirty and torn, but no obvious signs of injury other than a bruise over his left cheekbone. There’s always something positive in these bleak circumstances. A wave of relief quakes through his broken body. His dad is okay. He’s okay and that makes all this torture shit minuscule compared to the incomprehensible agony Stiles would undoubtedly feel if his dad was hurt or killed because of him.

Sometimes he wants a damn rewind button on his life, so he could stop himself from dragging Scott through the woods to find Laura Hale’s body. Stop this madness that has become his existence before it had the chance to thrive and fester in every corner.

Normalcy isn’t real, not anymore. He doesn’t expect it, even when he keeps praying for it.

Stiles attempts a shaky, but bleak smile for his dad’s sake before a dense shroud pulls—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, I know. Sorry! I wanted to split this chapter before it gets too long because the next part is heavy. Really heavy and deserves it's own update. 
> 
> Also? Real puppy piles are AWESOME, guys. Seriously. I'm sure nothing compares to piling up with Derek, Scott, Stiles and Lydia, but still.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is evil. Stiles is put through the ringer. Poor, poor Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor character death. You are warned. If you're ready for the bumpy ride, take a seat and enjoy. If not? Run away...run far, far away.

When Stiles comes around, his world is hazy and angled sideways. The cement floor is unforgiving and sticky underneath his cheek. Hands are taped behind him, ankles too. Fingers and toes are tingly and cold when he flexes them. Why Peter felt the need to restrain him when he can barely lift his eyelids, much less overpower a werewolf, is just excessive. Peter did it because he knows he can, shoving in Stiles’ face how much he’s in control here. Makes Stiles seethe.

At least he’s not in the amount of mind-numbing agony he was before passing out. That he never wants to experience again _…ever_. He’s just achy all over, like he’s exercised too much and muscles are sore from overuse. His broken wrist and lacerations have healed, but his head is another ballgame, pounding with a frenzy and pressure squeezing his eyeballs in a vice. Whatever Peter did to keep Stiles from healing seems like it has dissipated to a dull throb, though his back irritates him like he’s rolled on itching powder, and he can’t scratch it, dammit. Was it magic or something done to the tattoos that rendered his powers useless? A part of him needs answers for what he’s up against, but another is frightened at what he’ll find out. Because if it’s that easy for Peter to incapacitate him, what’s to say someone else won’t try harder?

His dad is leaning on the wall across from Stiles, eyes wild and alert and watching Stiles with a restless vigilance. Duct tape covers his mouth with blood trailing down his face from a new wound above his brow. Stiles eases his head up, but immediately regrets the movement when his vision starts doing a crazy tilt-a-whirl. Sighing, he rests his cheek on the floor and closes his eyes, willing the nausea away with slow and easy breaths in through his nose and out his mouth. The stench of rodent droppings and dank earth doesn’t help the symptoms at all. Wherever they are, it’s a small basement or cellar of some sort, the size of a storage closet. No windows, only a door above a flight of cement stairs, and scarce lighting. They might be in the catacombs on the Hale property, but then again that would make it too easy for the pack to track them down before Peter has his fun. He’s a sadistic asshole, but he’s not stupid.

Whatever Peter wants, Stiles still has no clue. He’s not certain whether that frightens him more than if he did know. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. But now that his dad’s involved, the stakes are raised a lot higher. Stiles has to find a way out of here. He has to think. He’s the clever one, the one who figures it out, but why can’t he do that now? When he tries formulating something into a solid thought, his brain backfires and turns into a gooey mess of words and ideas scrambled and tossed into a meat grinder.

“D-da—” he croaks; licks his gummy lips, swallows hard around the sandpaper in his throat and tries again. Opens his eyes and sees his dad blink heavy with relief, shoulders sagging against the wall. “You…okay, dad?”

He mumbles something along the lines of, “Yeah…you?” behind the tape, inclining his chin at Stiles.

“Good… That’s good,” Stiles murmurs and his lids droop closed. His body weighs down, heavy with fatigue. He thinks he may have dozed off for a moment or two, but there’s no telling of time. Eyes snap open when his dad makes a sound of distress, his stare searching and brimming with worry. “M’fine, dad. Jus’…tired.”

His dad growls some sort of objection then darts his eyes behind and left of Stiles, toward the stairs, gaze hardening with the impending approach of doom in a V-neck. Stiles shivers, curls in as tight as his bound limbs allow and tucks his chin close against his chest. He’s not ready for another round. Never will be.

“That hangover effect will soon pass,” Peter assures, and Stiles can hear the narcissistic smirk in his tone. It does little in the way of reassurance, and really, all Stiles wants is for the arrogant bastard to _stop talking_. Stop existing would be better, but hey, Stiles will take the small favors, too.

Peter descends the steps and crouches in front of Stiles, blocking his line of sight of his dad. His heart pounds in a spastic pulsation, the panic rising when Peter brushes matted, sweat-soaked hair from Stiles’ forehead. He flinches away and rubs his cheek against the concrete in a hopeless attempt of scraping off any remnants of Peter’s touch. It burns.

“You and your pack haven’t been careful about where and what you discuss lately. You never know who might overhear.”

“Should’ve known you’d lurk around,” Stiles mutters, rolling his eyes. “Are you the one who fetched those hunters on me?”

“I did not.”

Stiles swallows, throat convulsing; his body desperate for water, for respite. “Shocker,” he groans and shifts, trying for a more comfortable position, but realizes that’s not possible at the moment. “What’d you do to me?”

“I had a special cocktail brewed just for you by a witch up north. It’s proven quite effective, don’t you think? She was more than helpful on giving tips to what I’m really up against. See…you’re a threat, Stiles – yes _you_ – and you’re not even at your full potential. But I need to ensure that any sort of force standing in my way of what I want to achieve needs to be eradicated. Right now, you’re my biggest obstacle.”

Stiles just stares at Peter and tries leveling his pulse and breathing. Fails, he knows it, when Peter grins with that patented look of triumphant delight. He ruffles Stiles’ hair and titters under his breath.

“Aw, don’t look so glum, Stiles. It’s unbecoming of you. You should be thankful you’re still alive.”

“Honestly? If you’re going to keep talking, just kill me. Put me out of my misery.”

Head tilting like an intrigued puppy that just heard the word _treat_ , Peter asks, “Tell me, what did it feel like when you healed Derek in your bathroom? How did it make you feel?”

The question throws Stiles off, mostly for the fact that Peter _knows_ about Derek almost dying in Stiles’ bathroom, but he sobers quickly and curls back his lips, showing teeth. “I’m not telling you shit. Figure it out yourself since you seem so interested in my life.”

Peter hums, a humorless smile spreading his mouth thin. He chuckles and stands, saunters over by the Sheriff. If he can’t get the answer the easy way, why not go for the threatening option instead? Of course. Stiles struggles to sit upright, a protest bubbling to the surface and falling from his lips, his heartbeat quickening and throat tight. He flounders around on the floor, can’t coordinate his bound ankles and hands in a sitting position. Ends up slumped against the wall with his legs tucked underneath him.  

“Don’t—“

“Don’t?” Peter’s brows fly high on his forehead. “Don’t, Stiles? Is that it?”

He places his hand on top of the Sheriff’s head, mocking the image of how a master would stand over his pet. A haunting burn dances along Stiles’ spine and he clenches his teeth until it hurts. His dad’s nostrils flare with anger, face red as he tries jerking away from Peter’s proximity, only to have Peter grasp his hair and pull him up until he’s practically dangling off the floor from the werewolf’s grip.

A wordless noise scrapes out of Stiles’ throat, full of hysteria and rage. He pulls at the tape, but only makes it tighten more. Frustration claws out of his chest in a low growl. His dad clenches his eyes closed, his breathing harsh and heavy. Barren cinder-block walls stifle the noise, but it echoes in Stiles’ heart like a drum signaling danger. When Peter extends his claws and trails a finger over the wound on his dad’s forehead with a tender, but mocking touch, Stiles cries out. His dad screams behind the tape when Peter digs his nails in the wound, and the floor seems as if it dropped out from underneath Stiles. Fresh blood blossoms and streaks down his dad’s face.

“Stop! I’ll beg if that’s what you want,” Stiles yells, his chest heaving as he can’t get the adequate air his lungs need. Then his voice quiets with a rough tremor. “Please… Peter, please…let my dad go. Stop hurting him. I’m the one you want—”

“I _want_ you to answer my question. It’s simple,” Peter interjects. He releases the Sheriff’s hair and his claws lower, too close to the left carotid artery. If that’s severed, his dad will bleed out in seconds and Stiles can’t save him.

_I can’t save him. I can’t save – NO! Save him. Save him. Do whatever it takes. SAVE HIM!_

“Fine! It felt…it felt exhilarating. Like how it felt when the nogistune was inside me and he consumed people’s grief and pain. It was powerful. Made me feel strong…important. It…it was frightening, but I liked it. I enjoy that feeling of magic coursing through me. I crave it. It made me feel alive, like a live wire just waiting to explode.” Stiles sucks in a lungful of air, tears mingling with the sweat trailing down his face. He avoids his dad’s eyes, afraid of what he might see reflecting back. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That I enjoyed it, huh? Well, good for you asshole. Now what?”

A foreign, pained sound escapes from his dad, his eyes closed with hurt? Disgrace? Stiles can’t think about the idea of his dad ashamed of him, or worse, scared of his own son. That’s worse than any physical torture Peter can dish out. He’s put his dad through enough turmoil and embarrassment with the kanima shit, and then forcing his dad to destroy evidence after the nogistune used Stiles’ face and created a path of genocide around town. His dad never said it, but that alone almost made good ole’ Jack Daniels pay a nightly visit. How his dad had the strength not to drink is a true testament of the Sheriff’s growing resolve, because hell, Stiles wouldn’t have blamed him if he gave in.

Peter moans with a fulfilled grin spreading wide across his face, tilts his head back and shows the strong line of his neck before a quiet laugh shakes his shoulders. He looks down at Stiles, eyes hard, but brimming with something that looks too much like lust. Stiles gulps down bile that burned its way up, averting his eyes at the grimy floor.

“See, you and I are not so different. We both crave power and we’re not sated until we have more of it. Makes me re-think what I said earlier; perhaps the bite would’ve been good for you.”

“I’m _nothing_ like you,” Stiles spits, his entire body attacked with spasms as fury takes a stronghold. He keeps twisting his wrists under the tape, cutting off circulation more with each desperate pull and turn.

“You can deny it, but that doesn’t make it true.”

“I don’t _care_ what you think is true or not.”

One corner of Peter’s mouth lifts, irises glowing red in the dim light. He pets the Sheriff’s head, languid strokes that would lull an animal asleep, but only causes a repulsed shiver that shakes Stiles’ dad like a leaf swaying in a fierce wind.

“I’m interested to know how far your magic goes. Aren’t you a little curious? What if you have the ability to bring back someone from the dead, too?”

Stiles chokes on the musty air when he inhales too fast. His heart plunges into the churning acid of his stomach; eyes dart from Peter to his dad and back, shaking his head with a frantic plea stuck on the tip of his tongue. He can’t find his voice. The horror of what Peter obviously means paralyzes Stiles. His dad gets it a moment later, face blanched and the whites of his eyes blazing with the revelation.

“You…promised,” Stiles manages through a gruff whisper.

“Now, I didn’t promise anything, Stiles.” Peter wags his finger like a rebuking grade school teacher. Clicks his tongue against his hard palette and adds, “I do recall saying I’m not that heartless, but we all know that’s a lie. I can’t help it if you chose to believe that. I have to tie up loose ends, and your father is a loose end I can’t have lying around. He’ll only cause me trouble.”

Stiles worms his way onto his knees, begging Peter through a string of breathless, disjointed words. He shakes his head profusely, jaw unhinged, a mix between rage and panic boiling on the edge of his psyche, ready to detonate. Sweat beads his brow and upper lip, ribcage heaving, strained as his lungs try consuming oxygen that doesn’t seem sufficient. Vision swims with angry tears.

When Peter rests his claws over the Sheriff’s vulnerable throat, Stiles yells and almost falls on his face as he lurches forward. His dad goes still, no longer fighting Peter. His silent gaze says it all: he hasn’t resigned, but he’s not afraid if this becomes his last moment alive. Conveys with a probing stare to Stiles to be brave and when he nods, blinking slowly with an unwavering acceptance, he tells Stiles he loves him. Such a simple look, but an exchange only they understand. It shatters Stiles. Every piece of his resolve crumbles and he cries.

“No, don’t… please. Don’t. Peter—” Stiles chokes on snot draining down his throat, swallows and tries again. He can’t think of anything better than: “I’ll do anything. _Please_.”

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t plan this,” Peter justifies, yet no trace of remorse is in his tone. Even gives Stiles a regrettable frown, but the werewolf doesn’t care either way. One less pest he has to crush under his boot.

Everything moves in slow motion.

Stiles’ dad closes his eyes, bracing for the unavoidable, as Peter swipes his claws across his throat, opening it wide and dark like a gaping chasm. Blood spurts and gurgles through torn muscles and tendons, the white of his broken trachea shining bright against the dark splash of red. His dying body falls, when Peter releases him, and collapses in a pool of thick blood turning black.

A chunk of Stiles’ sanity slips like a rock slab on a fault line, and he screams. The cinder block walls feel as if they are closing in on him, crushing him on all sides, the hysteria compressing his chest with the threat of an attack. He screams and screams as a myriad of emotions swallow him whole – rage and terror and shock and so much _pain_. He screams with the sudden helplessness and loss until his voice breaks, limbs weak and heavy. He’s teetering on the edge of a precipice with nothing within his grasp for stability.

His dad’s gaze clings to Stiles until his last breath bubbles through mangled flesh then his eyes glaze over, unseeing. Stiles moans, the ache deep and wrenching, and he lets out a deplorable wail, pressing his forehead against the floor – the sound escaping him too much like a dying animal suffering. World spirals out of control with the burdening realization he is _alone_. His dad is dead. He clenches his eyes closed, too broken and too frightened to look, but he can’t stop the blood from invading his sight behind his lids. It keeps spreading, consuming everything in its wake.

He doesn’t fight Peter after he cuts the tape from his wrists and ankles, only crawls forward and sobs into the still-warm folds of his dad’s jacket. He grapples for purchase, positioning his dad where he’s cradled in Stiles’ lap. Silently, but vehemently hopes this is just a horrible, vivid nightmare and Stiles will wake up any second in his bedroom with his dad slapping at his feet when the alarm wasn’t enough.

_Wake up. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeup… WAKE UP!_

The mantra is insignificant now, but a habit he can’t break. Not after weeks of still discerning whether he was awake or dreaming after the nogistune completely fucked up his sleeping habits. This sick and twisted version of reality is like a sucker punch aimed at the kidneys, leaving Stiles gasping with fiery pain striking from every direction. He pushes through it long enough to place his trembling hands on blood-soaked flesh, scrunches his eyes tight and forces his mind on only healing his dad’s broken body. But whatever happened with Derek doesn’t work this time, and it’s not like Stiles is experienced in this. He doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing – wishing now more than ever for a damn instruction manual. Last time it just _came_ to him, not a whole lot of thinking needed.

“Come _on_! Damn you! _Work_!”

Nothing.

No spark or swell of energy originating from the ink on his back and spreading outward. There’s nothing but the coldness and pain sinking into the marrow of his bones, leaving him feeling hollow and alone. He can’t even muster the rage towards Peter he knows is buried somewhere inside him for destroying his family and messing up his magic.

Only wants it gone – all of it. He wants this nightmare to end _now_. He needs his dad back, telling him it’ll be okay and that he loves his son. Hell, Stiles will even take his dad’s critical stare over this emptiness festering.

“It’s all my fault,” he murmurs, squeezing arms tighter around his dad’s inanimate body, tears leaking from his closed eyes. “M’sorry. It’s my fault. It’s my _fucking_ fault. I couldn’t keep you safe…couldn’t save you. I’m sorry, daddy. I’m so sorry.”

Time is nonexistent. It may be hours or days that pass; there’s no way of knowing. All Stiles knows is his dad’s body sprawled in his lap is no longer as warm, but Stiles stays. He’s covered in blood and it’s dry and tacky on his skin and clothes. Peter’s gone. For how long, Stiles doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember Peter leaving, but grateful for his absence all the same.

When the pack crashes through the cellar like a tornado, it’s as if Stiles is in a bubble and he can’t really utilize his senses right away. He sees them, but he can’t hear them, ears clogged with the still rushing beat of his heart. He can’t help it, but he burrows his face in the crook of his dad’s shoulder and clutches him harder. He doesn’t want to let go. If he does he will break completely. The tie will sever and Stiles will fall down into the same abyss that almost took his life months earlier.

Scott’s voice is distant and muddled, as if he’s hundreds of feet at the bottom of a well. He’s hovering over Stiles; face contorted almost like he’s screaming at him, but Stiles can’t hear him, can’t feel _anything_ beyond the ice encasing him. But he fights like a rabid animal cornered when someone’s hands – realizes it’s Derek – try prying his dad from him. Several hands hold him down as he thrashes, confining him, suffocating him. He opens his mouth to scream, but all that comes out is a pitiful whine.

“Stiles, look at me. Look at me, Stiles. Hey, it’s me. It’s Lyds. Look at me. Stiles–”

Lydia’s in front of him, hands on either side of his face. The smooth, calming heat of her touch grounds him in an instant. She beams like a bright flare in a lighthouse, letting out a rattled sigh when his eyes focus on her. Watches the steady flow of tears rolling down her face. He leans into her touch, chin quivering with the realization of what’s happened.

“My dad—“ He chokes and then a cry bursts from his chest like an explosion, but Lydia contains it by gathering Stiles in her arms, cocooning him in a stable embrace.

Lydia’s voice breaks when she responds against his ear, “I know, Stiles. I know. I’m sorry.”

Then something warm, like a cozy goose feather comforter wrapped around him, starts at his arm and spreads. Realizes Derek is leeching his pain and he slumps back with a heavy exhale, giving in to the ease enveloping him. He’s lifted from the ground, his body pliant and lids drooping with the overpowering weight of fatigue. There’s no biological damage – all that’s healed – but the emotional pain must be enough to drain out.

“Wh—where’s my dad? Where?”

“It’s okay, bro. We’ve got you now,” Scott says from somewhere behind Stiles as he’s carried out of the cellar by Derek. “It’s gonna be okay…”

No, it won’t. It will never be _okay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, next part will explain more why Peter went after Stiles, along with some lovely hurt/comfort. 
> 
> If you want, you can follow me on my brand new tumblr account [itsfeistyred](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itsfeistyred). I'm still trying to get the hang of it, but I do plan on posting with progress reports on my fic. 
> 
> Thanks again for all the support with this story! You are all the best!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, some comfort to go with all that hurt. Along with a good spat of revenge plotting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Beacon Hills as a fictional location, but hinted in Northern California, the geography in this story is basing it off that the town is close to San Francisco.

As the only logical explanation behind the Sheriff’s fatal injuries, his death was ruled as a black bear attack – a mama protecting her cubs – during a spur-of-the-moment, two day hiking trip at Mt. Diablo outside of San Francisco. The story was ingrained in Stiles by the time the pack arrived at the Beacon Hills Memorial, much like when they had to lie about Allison’s death, and Stiles wanted to throw up. Wanted to refuse lying _once_ _again_ for the sake of those oblivious of the danger lurking in the shadows. But they had to stick to the fabrication or it would’ve opened a bigger can of worms than they are ready to deal with.

Placed in charge in the Sheriff’s absence, Parrish gathered a statement from Stiles at the hospital. Not that there was any good reason for Stiles to stay there, since the physical injuries inflicted by Peter healed. After Scott gave Melissa the 4-1-1 about Stiles’ abilities, she strongly advised he stay a few hours for observation under her care before released. Make it look legit, of course, his file indicating he only suffered superficial bruising and shock. And so no questions came up on why Stiles looked as if he fought that bear and ended up unscathed, Melissa supplied a new shirt, what with Stiles’ own torn and punctured by Peter’s claws.

When the news spread about the Sheriff’s death, it was like a tidal wave of grief had devoured Beacon Hills. Parrish fought tooth and nail not to lose his cool. Through watery eyes and sounding as if his throat was closing up, he pushed through the questions, while Stiles stared at an odd stain on the wall of the private examination room. Huddled in a blanket with too much blood – mostly his dad’s – dried and scaly on his skin, he felt exposed and uncomfortable. Lydia was there, close but not hovering, and didn’t interfere until Stiles could no longer verbalize the needed words after ten minutes of retelling a story that didn’t happen and desperate to reveal the actual events. She caught him before he could, and told Parrish that Stiles had enough. That they’d stop by the station in a few days to finish.

Just like with everything else, from emergency first aid kits to evacuation procedures during catastrophic events, his dad had a plan if he passed before Stiles turned eighteen. In his line of work, he had to when Stiles has no extended family. Melissa revealed that she and Stilinski agreed on a will, which granted full custody to the other before the boys turned eighteen. Stiles had no idea, and neither did Scott, but both immensely thankful for the precaution. Lydia practically moved in right along with him. She hadn’t left since coming over with two bags full of clothes and essentials, one of them for Stiles, and Scott’s room became a haven with inflatable mattresses covered in piles of clothes and blankets and takeout.

According to Parish, a group of – nonexistent – teenagers are responsible for the arson strategically setup by Peter for his perfect diversion to get at Stiles. Mostly abandoned buildings in the business district were victim to Peter’s needless motivations. Surprise of the century: the kids are still at large with no eyewitness accounts of _actual_ pyromaniac kids running around town with torches and lighters.

Funny, how life keeps throwing those curveballs.

If only the department knew the truth then Peter would actually be held accountable, making it more difficult for him to sidle his way through anonymity. But Stiles is growing more used to life rarely taking his side. Instead the good people end up broken and burned in the aftermath, and those like Peter get away with _everything_. Fate is seriously screwed up, like the earth tilted on its axis one day and decided it didn’t care about righting itself again. Maybe if the Sheriff had decided to stick around the station after the fires were put out, and start those reports himself rather than placing Parrish in charge, he might still be alive. But Stiles would never blame his dad. His eagerness to return home and start off his week long vacation the right way ended like no one expected, not even with the threat of Peter hanging over each of their heads. And what if Stiles had disobeyed his dad’s order to stay home, and ventured on his own investigation – maybe Peter wouldn’t have caught him.

The what-if’s and why-not’s only fester the more he mulls them over in his mind, like kneading bread, the process repetitive with painstaking, but methodical movements. Makes it harder to snap back in the present and concentrate on the ceremonial procession, like he literally has to drag himself out of a tar pit with nothing but a frayed rope as a lifeline. He grimaces as if slapped and blinks rapidly behind the shade of his sunglasses – feels the wetness coagulating in his eyes, but the tears don’t fall.

Hundreds of people are at the cemetery, the grave site so densely packed, it’s hard discerning where the sea of faces ends or begins. The numbers are staggering, intimidating. Most are law enforcement from various cities and counties bordering Beacon Hills, along with military veterans from when his dad served before Stiles could walk. He’s sure the majority of these men and women never knew his dad personally, but the fact that they’re here paying their respects to a fallen officer is immensely profound.

Scott and Lydia are by his side, sitting with a front row view of the closed casket, each respectively giving comfort in a way that doesn’t suffocate him. Firm, placating hand on his shoulder here or delicate fingers intertwined with his own there – both squeezing with the assurance of not letting go while the turbulent waters won’t settle beneath Stiles’ unsteady feet. They haven’t left him alone since they found him and his dad in the basement of an abandoned home thirty miles outside of town.

Derek’s a different story. After he helped with the rescue and transport, he vanished and hasn’t come around in the last few days leading up to the funeral. Somehow this disappoints Stiles rather than infuriating him, like he feels it should. In the past several months, Derek’s frequent presence became an easy adjustment in Stiles’ life and he _likes_ the time spent with the werewolf. The bond growing between them is different than what Stiles has established with Scott, or even Lydia. Stiles butts heads with Derek more often than not, but the banter has evolved from threatening to familial. No longer are they trying to hurt or kill each other, with resentment and frustration taking the backseat during most of the conversations between them.

Anger is still there, but reserved for someone else, boiling just beneath the grief and ready to spill over into a hot mess. Holding onto that rage is the only thing keeping Stiles above water, the only thing that feels tangible, and gives him renewed vigor to get out of bed each morning. With the vain hope he will find Peter and end him in a slow and visceral death. Any shred of morality is shoved down so far, the indignation devouring him like a slow-eating cancer, sometimes Stiles doesn’t know which way is up anymore. All he wants is respite from the pain wringing him out, and that’ll only happen when Peter’s dead.

Miraculously, Stiles endures through the procession of the pallbearers carrying the casket to the grave site, the standing of the guard, the three-volley salute and the presentation and folding of the American flag. But when the flag is handed over to Stiles in solemn silence, he cracks under the sudden pressure of every pair of eyes on him and the pity coagulating the air so thick, he can’t breathe. Escape races through his head as the panic builds up in a steady rhythm.

With the flag pressed close against his chest, clutching it like it’s his salvation, Stiles surges to his feet and runs. He shoves his way through the overbearing net of too many people and the reason he feels trapped in a monkey suit and loafers that are giving him blisters. He ignores the frantic, surprised cries from Scott and Lydia, thankful they don’t chase after him. As much as he values their clinging, protective company, he needs a moment to _think_ without the buzz of other voices aside from his own screaming within.

His vision becomes a dizzying smear of colors and shapes as he makes a strict path through the cluster of parked vehicles and cookie-cutter, white gravestones designated for those who served their country. His dad will have one just like it, his name lost in a dense ocean of marble and block letters. An indignant sound claws out and fades in the open air. He runs with a single destination in mind, toward the only one who can find Peter, and rid Stiles of this fiery seed for revenge twisting and aching in his gut. Doesn’t matter how far he has to run, just the thought of getting there.

Stiles runs until his lungs are on the verge of bursting, his legs on fire. He feels each impact with the paved road like a sharp jolt of electricity lancing up the soles of his feet, through his shins and knees. But he runs faster, harder. Sweat drips in his eyes, stinging. Clothes are soaked and sticking to his skin with an irritable itch he doesn’t dare stop and scratch. Heartbeats drum in time with his rapid footfalls, breath loud and harsh, mouth dry.

The momentum falters like a startling slap across the face, as he trips over his clumsy feet and careens toward the pavement. He crashes in an undignified heap on the sidewalk, scraping his palms and knees through the wool of his slacks, pebbles digging under the skin. Chest rises and falls with heaving gulps. He feels the undeniable tingle of the cuts healing, and a scream crawls up from his diaphragm, catching in his throat. He muffles it through clenched teeth, pressing a fist against his mouth. It’s not fucking _fair_ that he’s healing from a few abrasions, and he couldn’t do a damn thing for his dad. This can’t be happening. His dad can’t be dead. He should’ve been able to save him—

“Stiles? What are you doing here?”

He flails around at the sound of Derek’s voice, finds him standing over him, eyebrows arched high on his forehead and green eyes big and bright with a mixture of shock and alarm. He’s wearing dark gray slacks with a black Henley.

Mouth hanging open, Stiles stares. “I—“ He starts then clamps his jaw shut, shakes his head as he scrambles to stand up, holding the folded flag close like it’s the only thing keeping him warm in the midst of a blizzard. He stalks forward – didn’t know it was possible for Derek’s brows to go any higher but they do – and closes the space between them. Pokes a finger at Derek’s chest, but he doesn’t back down from the imposing closeness, can only gape as Stiles yells, “Why weren’t you there? I didn’t see—”

“I was,” Derek interrupts then presses his lips in a thin line and huffs through his nose. His gaze lifts toward the building behind them, and Stiles realizes they’re outside of Derek’s loft. Oh. That was fast.

Derek sighs and heads for the gated entrance. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says with a heavy tongue.

They don’t say anything to each other, aside from a few furtive glances in the elevator, until inside Derek’s apartment on the top floor. Stiles walks ahead of Derek toward the large metal table centered in front of the windows. He shrugs out of the blazer, exhaling with relief as a cool breeze brushes over his arms and sneaks beneath the cotton of his dress shirt. Loosens the tie next when it gives him the sensation of choking, neck slick with sweat, fingers shaking, when he unbuttons the top part of his shirt. He lays the jacket on the polished metal surface of the table and stares at everything and nothing. Now he’s at a loss of what to do with himself, his mind free to wander.

Each visit, Stiles wonders why the table is missing chairs, but then reminds himself Derek is not a conventional type of guy. Probably lounges on the sofa in nothing but fuzzy socks and briefs. Or maybe he doesn’t eat in his apartment at all, instead opts for hunting easy prey in the woods. Actually grasps he doesn’t know _what_ Derek likes to eat or how or when, not that Stiles needs the nitty-gritty details, but he’s suddenly interested. Stiles is interested in a lot of things that concern Derek, now that they belong in the same pack and all.

Derek materializes beside him, offering a damp washcloth, and this whole moment feels like déjà vu. A sharp inhale scrapes its way down Stiles’ trachea. The air fills his lungs before he drags it out slow through pursed lips. He mindlessly scratches at a phantom itch on his nose and then takes the rag from Derek with a curt nod of thanks. At first he’s not sure what to do with the rag until he realizes the dried blood on his hands. He’s not ready to lay down the flag so he can clean up. Toughest decision: drop the flag or keep holding it? For now, he opts for clinging onto the flag, even as he’s gotten blood on it. Maybe he should put it down or perhaps wash it. Can you wash an American flag or is it illegal, much like burning it? He can’t remember what Mr. Yukimura said when he touched base on the history of the flag.

Stiles squeezes his face in a grimace, desperate for a moment of clarity instead of the random bullshit bouncing around inside his skull.

“Are you lurking or something? Where have you been?” he demands in a hoarse whisper, figures cornering Derek with accusations is the best way to free his mind of its ramblings. He doesn’t look at Derek, just stares at the inanimate objects clutched in his hands, long fingers fidgeting.

Derek sighs and steps away from Stiles, closer toward the windows. His back muscles are tense, but there’s never been a time that Stiles can recall when Derek wasn’t stressed in some way. He’s always wary, poised for battle, and now Stiles can’t fault him for it. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to come back down from the high anticipation of another attack. Who will come after him? Or worse, which one of his friends will be next in danger because of him? Stiles recoils, horrified by the idea of losing someone else he holds dear.

They’ve all lost too much in so little time. This shit is too heavy. They are fucking _teenagers_ and yet the amount of turmoil and grief the pack has experienced should only happen in movies, or at least Stiles wants to believe that’s possible rather than facing reality’s sick and twisted version.

“Trying to track Peter, but I came back for the funeral,” Derek says after a long beat of silence, snapping Stiles from his brooding and catches Derek staring at him, arms crossed over his chest. “I went up north to Redding where the alpha that Peter targeted lived. He charmed his way into her pack and killed her, leaving the rest of the pack wandering. They weren’t strong enough to stay together without a leader. I’m surprised that Peter didn’t try taking them as his own pack, but then again he doesn’t know a damn thing about being a real alpha. He just wants the power.”

“I thought the alpha power only grows stronger with more betas.”

Derek nods.

“He’s not that stupid, even as he has a knack for going for ostentatious rather than subtlety,” Stiles mutters with a dramatic eye roll. “In fact – I hate to say this – Peter is too intelligent to think he can survive without a pack for long. He probably saw that pack as too weak for whatever Dr. Evil plans he has for taking over the world.”

Derek’s lips quirk then his gaze darkens as his brow pinches together. “The Hale name still has a strong reputation, especially along the east and west coast. I’ve contacted as many territories as I know to warn them about Peter and let me know the moment he shows up. They’ll give me jurisdiction to take care of him. The pack in Redding, I’ve never heard of them, so they must not have known about my family either. That’s probably why Peter was able to worm his way into gaining their trust so easily.”

The vicious circle keeps coming back around to Peter, wrecking havoc wherever he treads, weaving his treachery and charm through the lives of others, damaging any form of stability that’s created, and people just let it happen like it’s _normal_. It’s almost as if people are bewitched by him, but Stiles kept seeing straight through the allure, and he can’t understand how anyone else didn’t. The pack tolerated him for too long, letting him get away with too much and not doing a damn thing about it. Like they were scared or didn’t deem it important enough.

Should’ve been important when he killed his niece, or bit Scott, or even when he haunted Lydia. No, it takes killing the Sheriff – the straw that broke the camels’ back – to make the pack realize the true danger prowling in their midst.

“So, you have no idea where he’s hiding now?”

“The trail turned up cold not far from the house we found you in. There’s a small river nearby and he must’ve tread through to mask his scent. Water is a barrier to wolves,” Derek supplies with a darkening scowl. “He planned where he was going to take you. He knew the river would throw off Scott and me once we found out you went missing.”

“Fuck.” Stiles slumps forward, bracing his hands on the table with the flag and washcloth scattered on the surface. He stares at Derek through the curve of his lashes. “He can’t get away with this,” he hisses, feels the anger coiling in the muscles around his spine, stiffening his neck.

“He won’t,” Derek promises. His gaze is set hard and glistening with the guarantee of bringing justice to those hurt by his uncle, including himself.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up any minute,” Stiles confesses, voice cracking around the edges and fiddles with the folded seam of the flag. “That my dad’ll drive up in his cruiser after a long day at work and pop open a cold beer and then prop his feet up on the coffee table while we watch baseball—“ He chokes, tucking chin close to this chest, vision swimming in stubborn tears that won’t spill – haven’t since he held his dad’s body in his arms.

“It gets better,” Derek admits with a voice devoid of the solemn mood wafting between them.

His words are not a heartless response, but a testament that the ability to move on _is_ real. With Derek’s circumstances, it must have been the hardest thing he’s ever done, but he did it. Maybe Stiles can too. But he wonders when the sting of loss will finally stop throwing punches he can’t dodge. Left and right he turns and bodies keep dropping. He can’t stand it. He can’t stand to lose someone else.

Stiles scoffs. “My mom died almost ten years ago, and this shit is _not_ getting any better for me. Not when I can’t seem to stop the people I love from dying. Not when it’s my fault—”

“Those are delusions you need to let go of. No one can stop anyone from dying, and they sure as hell are not your fault,” Derek says with a firm finality, his tone lacking its usual edge, but it still heats the frustration to a boil despite his best efforts at easing Stiles’ burden of guilt.

“I should be able to!” Stiles stabs a thumb at his own chest, cheeks hot with the rush of anger, as he whirls on Derek. “What’s the fucking _point_ of this magic if I can’t save anyone?”

“Use it,” Derek urges through a clenched jaw, his voice a low growl. “There’s nothing wrong with using your anger. It’s a powerful tool, even for good.”

“There’s nothing good about murder. My dad rooted that idea in our household before I could talk, but dammit, I can’t help it that all I can think about is killing Peter. I wish I could figure out this magic that seems so fucking useless and put his head on a spike.”

“All depends on which context you place murder in. It’s a gray area.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, brow furrowed with a noncommittal stare. “Dateline will swear up and down murder is not a gray area. Either way you look at it, it comes around full circle.”

“I’m not saying murder is entirely okay,” Derek replies, giving Stiles a look that screams _duh_ , _idiot_. “In the supernatural world everything is gray. We don’t have the privilege of the law on our side. We’re forced to dish out our own brand of justice. If killing is what we have to do, then so be it.”

Stiles gnaws on his lower lip with a slow nod. “Okay. I can deal with that.” He looks at Derek, pins him with an unwavering look. “When we find Peter, I want to be the one that kills him.”

Derek blinks, mouth tightening around the edges.

“Don’t you dare give me that look,” Stiles warns through a sharp hiss, shaking his head furiously. He steps closer to Derek, the small space between them rigid with tension. “I have every right to dish out my brand of justice, as you said so yourself. He tortured me, Derek, and made me watch as he clawed my dad’s throat out…for absolutely _no_ reason.”

“Peter has a reason behind everything he does,” Derek counters, and that statement feels like a punch in the face then another in the stomach just for good measure.

Stiles reels back, blinking hard, mouth hanging open. Doesn’t care so much about Peter’s reasons, because everything is inexcusable where it concerns Peter, but it’s the idea of Derek defending his uncle that throws Stiles out into left field. Then the shock dissolves and ire surges like a tsunami wave swallowing up the shore. The restraint he’s held onto the last few days, saving it all for Peter, evaporates. He stalks forward and swings his fist toward Derek’s face, but he easily deflects the blow, which of course Stiles expected. But he definitely didn’t anticipate the invisible force field he projects from his hand when he tries lunging for another punch.

Before Stiles can even question what the hell just happened, he’s thrown back by the energy of his own magic as if he ran straight into a taut bungee cord and was propelled by the strength of its elasticity. The wind is knocked right out of him when he lands on his back, arms splayed in a parody of Jesus on the cross. Derek’s also tossed clear across the room, back colliding with a support beam with a resounding thud.

Stunned silence engulfs the loft like a vacuum effect.

Then much the same as pressure released from an airtight room, atmosphere popping with a loud whoosh, Stiles sucks in a huge guzzle of air through lungs squeezed too tight. Watches as the ceiling sways a little. His skin prickles with hyper-awareness, each wisp of air sweeping along the porous surface, every speck of dirt tingling like tiny needles of electricity. His fingers twitch with the heady thrum of _whatever_ shot through him, still there, ready for another round. He fights with everything he can think of to contain it before he can cause serious damage. That was...insane and terrifying and he’s not sure he’s ready to experience it again. Not so soon, at least.

“Stiles…” Derek’s gasping, a mixture of awe and uncertainty coagulated in his wheezing voice. Stiles hears him climbing to his feet, a hoarse groan escaping, most likely bruised from the collision with the beam. “What the hell…did you do?”

Stiles swallows, cringes as his tongue scrapes against his hard palette like a sheet of sandpaper. He doesn’t take his eyes off the dark rafters of the ceiling. His head shakes numbly, feels as if its detached from his body, when he’s unable to put sound and motion to the words stuck below his vocal chords. Derek’s kneeling over him, face aligned with his own and strained with a jumble of emotions, neither of them look optimistic. His face blurs as Stiles’ sight swims in a whirling pool of tears, his throat convulsing.

A warm hand presses down on his collarbone, Derek’s voice miles away, as Stiles suddenly comprehends the motive behind Peter’s behavior. Realizes Peter intended on hurting _someone_ all along, any one of his friends that would ignite the switch and open the floodgates to Stiles’ magic. The burden of this truth presses down on Stiles with the promise of crushing him. Every bit of resolve crumbles like a snowcap hurtling down a mountainside. A deep, gut-wrenching sob claws its way out of his throat and the tears spill over.

Derek’s frantic, pupils blown wide with too much white around the edges. His hands are shaking when he takes Stiles’ face, holding him and forcing him to look up at Derek and not lose focus. “Look at me! Dammit, Stiles…breathe, just breathe,” he soothes, and mimics the exercises with Stiles, which he’d find more than a little amusing if he wasn’t in the midst of a panic attack. “That’s it. Breathe. Breathe with me.”

One gradual inhale through his mouth and then he let out a deep exhale from his nose. He repeats the process, keeping his gaze fixed on Derek, watches him through narrowed slits, using him as an anchor. Once his breathing evens out, Derek helps him sit up with a sturdy hand planted at the middle of his back. He keeps it there; the abundance of animal body heat radiates from his palm and Stiles leans into the touch. He closes his eyes as a wobbly sigh brushes past lax lips.

“You’re right.”

Derek’s eyebrows fly up high on his forehead, eyes wide with confusion and the vestiges of worry softening the edges of his chiseled face.

“Peter planned all along to hurt someone close to me. It just happened to be my dad that ended up in the crossfire. I don’t think he wanted _that_ – hell, he created those fires to get my dad away from me. But it wasn’t like Peter would pass up the opportunity once it was handed to him,” Stiles says and releases a strained groan, rubbing his fingers over the skin of his brow as if pained with a headache. “This all makes me sick to my stomach. All along he wanted to unlock this…magic. He didn’t want to kill me: he wants to use me. This isn’t a gift. I only see it as a curse.”

Stiles can hear Derek grinding his teeth, a sharp intake of air through his nostrils. “There’s a reason you have it,” he reasons delicately. “Hating it or denying it won’t make it go away. This is your life now, there’s no going back. But you have a chance to use this magic for something far more powerful than what Peter wanted. Use it for good. Use it to defeat him.”

“I am _not_ wearing spandex leotards, just so we’re clear,” Stiles blurts but then composes quickly when Derek’s face sours. He swallows and exposes his vulnerability and desire for revenge with an imploring, wide-eyed look at Derek. “Does that mean I get to kill him?”

Derek sighs, blinks slowly, hand flexing on Stiles’ back with a vague twinge of unease. “It’s not going to bring your dad back, Stiles. It will change you.”

“I’ve already changed. Peter made sure of that when he came after me and killed my dad.”

“If that’s what you need,” Derek relents with an idle shrug. He sits back on his heels and stares at Stiles, searching, gauging with his hand still firm and steady on Stiles’ back. Then he says after a long pause, “Go take a shower. Grab whatever clothes fit in the dresser in the bathroom. I’ll order some pizza and call Scott and Lydia to come over, how does that sound? We’ll worry about Peter and what just happened later. I promise.”

Stiles nods and snatches his bottom lip between his teeth, chews on it before a tiny smile tickles the corners of his mouth, makes him feel light for the first time in several days. Though minuscule, some of the heaviness that’s been squeezing him in a vice eases, and he throws a silent thanks at Derek for not pitying or coddling him as if he’s about to shatter into pieces at the slightest touch or mention of his dad. Derek still regards him with a sense of disquiet, but he doesn’t make Stiles feel small and fragile like Scott and Lydia do without realizing. He’s indebted to their own version of comfort, but the shift in support lifts him up higher, and gives him the strength he needs for moving forward.

The first step is showering off the day’s sweat and blood and dried tears. Start afresh.

He strips and steps under the hot spray, savoring the water streaming down the line of his back and relaxing the tension twisted in the group of muscles along his shoulders and spine. He rolls his head from side to side, alleviating the pressure that’s built up, as he watches the pink-tinged water rush down the drain between his feet. Still dumbfounded by the sight of his blood, but no evidence of how it got there. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever fathom it.

He stays in the shower until the water’s cold and his skin wrinkles. He smells the pizza before he’s dried off and dressed in a pair of drawstring pajama pants and a vintage Led Zeppelin t-shirt stuffed at the bottom of a drawer in Derek’s dresser, which it totally throws Stiles off. He marvels at the idea of Derek actually liking the classic rock band, or if it’s just a random shirt he picked up somewhere. Either way, it’s cool. The clothes smell like leather and pine and fresh cut grass. No remnants of softener, almost as if they were worn once before and then put back in the dresser for another day.

Scott and Lydia are in the kitchen with Derek, pizza boxes open and steam billowing from the pies with Scott already chowing down on a slice with his other hand going for another. He looks up when Stiles pads his way into the room, and a substantial load of worry stoops Scott’s shoulders. That kicked puppy look forces a heavy sigh from Stiles, but he still claps Scott on the shoulder, giving his best smile considering. The silent exchange of reassurance helps lighten Scott’s mood and he chomps on the second slice of pepperoni with a ravenous grin. Lydia just shakes her head, full lips pursed in a mockery of a pout. Derek watches the teenagers with a minute smirk dancing on his mouth, bracing his arms on the edge of the granite counter, and Stiles shrugs at him with a _what can you do_ arch of his brow.

The pack ends up on the sectional sofa after finally deciding it’s time for the Dark Knight marathon – soaking into some semblance of normalcy for at least a few hours. A pacifying calm spreads across the pack. Stiles doesn’t even make it through the second half of Batman Begins before he’s asleep, head slumped on Derek's warm and surprisingly cushy shoulder and Lydia curled around his torso on the other side. Scott’s on a floor of pillows on his stomach, feet high in the air and swaying back and forth like a child watching the circus for the first time, the excitement barely contained.

This…this moment feels _good_. Better than good. It’s perfect and Stiles wants to hang on tight and never let go, because the moment he wakes, he’ll have to face the music and what has become of his life. For now, he knows where his true solidity resides and it’s not with his rage or need for vengeance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a moment to thank each and every one of you reading this story, whether you let me know through kudos or comments how much you enjoy it. You are encouraging and lovely and amazing. Thank you! 
> 
> I notice this story is starting to lean toward the beginnings of Sterek. It might happen in a "sequel" but this story will continue to focus heavily on the friendship developing between them. Besides, I like to read the sex, but I am definitely not good at writing it. It would be embarrassing for all of us. 
> 
> Follow me on my tumblr account: [itsfeistyred](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/itsfeistyred)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Six weeks without an update. Sorry! My life has been super busy with more tasks to do at work along with adopting a Siberian Husky. She's a lot of work, but completely worth it. So, my free time has been minimal as of late. I think I am back on track now. 
> 
> I know this chapter might not seem much in the grand scheme of things, but I feel I need to continue with Stiles dealing - or lack thereof - with his dad's death along with struggling to figure out what exactly he can do in terms of magic. Next chapter will be exploring that more along with Deaton. I still haven't figured out how many chapters this story will be, but I'm thinking at least 20 all together. We'll see. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! I do delight in hearing from you and what you think of the story.

That minute moment of stability is gone.

Poof – vanished like a crazy magical trick.

The last three weeks resulted in a rapid rise in panic attacks, nightmares, and insomnia. Anxiety is a constant state of emotion. He can’t stop shaking. He can’t turn off the incessant and agonizing reminder of his failure in saving his dad, stop Peter, or fight harder when the nogistune possessed him. All of this wouldn’t have happened if he had fought harder against the evil spirit. He could have prevented Allison and all those people at the hospital from dying.

But he can’t stop _seeing_ his dad, covered in blood and throat torn open, blaming Stiles for not saving him; for not trying hard enough; for being _that_ child who always caused problems and headaches. He can’t fight the oppressive guilt; he’s not strong enough.

Sweat rolls down Stiles’ face, stinging in his eyes, beads on his upper lip before he swipes it away with his tongue. The salty moisture licks at his back, shirt sticking on skin. Chest feels tight; the invisible vice squeezing and squeezing until he’s sure his lungs will burst from the pressure. He clamps his eyes shut, tears springing from the corners as he grits his teeth and tries derailing the voices and vivid images replaying in his head – even when he’s awake. Like a cringe-worthy song stuck on repeat and the stop button is broken.

His senses soar into overdrive with memories of his dad – the smell of his aftershave, the worn leather of his utility belt, and the overpowering gasoline-like fumes of shoe polish. Images of him laughing, working, protecting, _dying_ hit Stiles like a Mack truck right where it hurts the worst. He bends over his middle, clutching it as the torture stabs with a serrated edge, hands gripping the edge of Jeep’s engine well. The last time he tried fixing his Jeep, his dad was there, helping and teasing Stiles about all the duct tape miraculously holding her together. It was a moment of snarky comments and laughter, a moment that can never be replicated.

There isn’t enough duct tape in the world to hold Stiles together now, not when he keeps falling apart with little chance of mending the breaking pieces. Damn Derek and his empty assurance that things will get better. They are _not_ getting better. Over three weeks and it’s getting worse, and it feels like a baseball bat pounding unprotected flesh, the bruises and broken bones can’t heal before another round strikes. Hallucinations from lack of sleep make him believe Peter is stalking him and goading him into more guilt. Worst of it all is seeing his dad. Something inside of Stiles breaks each time, pieces of him that don’t seem repairable after.

Scott and Lydia express their worry with lingering stares and hovering until it’s stifling. Almost as if they’re at a loss what they can say or do that’ll help Stiles move beyond the rage and the grief eating him up inside, so instead they keep a silent vigilance. Pressure from his friends building with the expectancy he’ll break he stormed out of Scott’s house. Didn’t think ahead, only getting _away_. Now he’s on the side of the road with a stalled Jeep miles outside of town.

He’s not ready to call anyone for help. Not even Derek — _especially_ Derek — who hasn’t found one solid lead on Peter’s whereabouts in three weeks. Stiles thinks he’ll get better results if he goes after Peter himself. Maybe Derek gave up on what was already a fruitless search and hasn’t the heart to tell Stiles the bad news.

There seems a lot of things his friends are avoiding with him lately – he knows it, he can feel it, and it hurts and frustrates him. They think they’re protecting him, but only make him more on edge and agitated. He’s walking around like a ticking time bomb, moody and snapping with just a glance in his direction.

Waiting and waiting and _waiting_ with absolutely no word on where Peter is or what his next move will be is driving Stiles mad. The inaction makes him antsy – unable to keep still and _think_. School started back a few weeks ago, but he can’t focus in class or on homework. When the nogistune fought for possession, Stiles couldn’t read a damn thing, and it’s happening again. Letters jumble and slither down the pages, provoking random moments of hysteria in the middle of a lecture. He misses more school than attends and somehow no one notices or cares mentioning it. Perhaps teachers and classmates think he needs more time after his dad died. No, _murdered_. Slaughtered like cattle, but hell if Stiles can say anything about what really happened.

Let people think whatever the hell they want. The less focus on him the more he can concentrate on finding Peter without interferences. Screw Derek or Scott or anyone who tells him it’s a very bad idea to go after Peter. He’s done sitting around, twiddling his thumbs. Forget the fact Stiles hasn’t a clue where to start looking, but it’s the _effort_ that counts.  

Why Peter hasn’t returned for him is a question that’s plaguing Stiles more than he cares admitting aloud. He wonders if what Peter said about eliminating obstacles was true and he’s just waiting for the right moment to strike again. Or maybe he had too much fun killing the Sheriff and thought that was enough to destroy Stiles. Probably figured since he’s an alpha again, he has nothing to worry about. Stiles delights in that moment when he will prove the bastard wrong. He may have broken a huge chunk of Stiles, but he didn’t destroy him.  

Deaton’s tried teaching him on harnessing the anger toward his magic, but Stiles can’t ever concentrate long enough for anything effective, and eventually his magic goes haywire. Good thing Derek can heal rapidly or else he’d be in the hospital with broken ribs and a shattered collarbone from one incident. Not to mention Stiles almost blew up the clinic with a dazzling lightning show that left him walking around with an overload of static electricity for days. He’s refused Lydia’s presence any time he practiced for those reasons alone. Also Stiles was completely against the idea of Deaton in any close proximity, but the Druid persisted that he’d be fine. So Stiles just stopped showing up at the clinic and ignored Deaton’s calls and texts. Eventually he started evading Scott when he’d ask and made up casual excuses about being too tired or too busy with homework.

Pains Stiles more than anything when he’s lying to his best friend, and Scott’s not stupid. Stiles knows Scott can see right through those lies, but he won’t push. He’ll wait until Stiles is ready. He always does and he will forgive as easily as blinking. His high tolerance with just about _everything_ is something Stiles will never achieve in this lifetime. That’s just not wired in him to trust and forgive so easily – not when he grew up under the wing of law enforcement. Screw the whole innocent until proven guilty, he considers everyone guilty until proven innocent. With Scott’s overabundance of faith in people, especially those of the questionable and supernatural variety, has made him more susceptible for betrayal. By Peter, most importantly, and Scott simply brushes it off where Stiles won’t. Can’t get over the fact that Scott still believes there is something worth saving in Peter when he is so far beyond that point there’s no coming back.

Stiles slams the hood shut with a clipped yell, annoyed with his thoughts, and the Jeep suddenly revs to life. He startles, hands high in the air, staring at the engine grill as if the vehicle is seconds away from transforming into a beast. No one’s in the front seat to start the ignition, so there’s no possible way the Jeep could turn on. Tongue darts out between his teeth and wet his lips, as he touches the hood with the tips of his fingers, barely making contact. A small spark of energy ignites between the tiny space of metal and skin and the engine revs harder, louder, as if some invisible force is pumping on the gas pedal.

“Holy—“

He jerks his hand away and steps back, assessing the Jeep from a wary distance. These strange and random occurrences with his magic keep happening, and he has no way of knowing what triggers it. Though, mostly it seems the less he thinks about the energy, the better he is at using it. Controlling it? Not so much. If only he can figure out _what_ exactly he’s capable of other than healing.

Maybe he should stop avoiding Deaton and continue training. Then maybe he’ll have a better chance fighting Peter and actually _winning_ rather than getting his ass handed back to him.    

Matted, sweat-soaked hair pulls away from his forehead when he combs his fingers through. His gaze wanders aimlessly, chest deflated with defeat and exhaustion over this ridiculous inner battle he’s fighting with and ultimately failing. He can’t keep turning his back on everything and the ones who are trying to help. The pack, his _only_ anchor, is what he needsto get through the mucky hell he’s treading in. He admits he needs Scott’s gentle, yet ferocious spirit. He needs Lydia’s spitfire, tenacious support and he definitely needs Derek’s quiet wisdom and strength, along with his usual brooding. Without the pack, Stiles is empty and nowhere near as strong.  

He fishes his phone out of his back pocket and finds several texts and missed calls from the pack. Scott will already be at the clinic for work. Biting his lower lip, he relents and dials Scott’s number. He picks up after the first ring.

“Yo, you weren’t at school today. Are you okay?”

Stiles massages the back of his neck, opens his mouth with some lame excuse on the tip of his tongue, but bites back from blurting out another lie. His best friend deserves better. But he doesn’t get an opportunity of saying anything when he hears a single footstep – shush of shoe on grit – giving him that seconds notice of someone creeping up behind him.

There’s no care for who it may be as he snatches up a wrench and blindly swings in a wide arc. He catches a guy across the face, striking his jaw, but with barely any potency. Pissed, the dude roars and lurches forward, grabbing a fistful of Stiles’ shirt. Phone and wrench drop from nerveless fingers. There’s no time in gaining his balance as he’s yanked forward into the face of a snarling werewolf.

Well, shit.

He hears Scott’s voice booming from the phone’s speaker. He shouts back, “Highway ten! Mile marker—“ But he’s cut off when fangs snap too close at his neck. There’s a distinct crunch of a boot heel smashing his phone on the pavement and Scott’s frantic yells disappear. Growling mixes in with chortling, decaying breath hitting him like a slap on the face, as if the dude had just feasted on road kill and ignored the essence of a toothpick after. The stench makes Stiles’ eyes burn. He barely notices when his shirt collar is pulled down over his shoulder, revealing the top half of the markings on his back, until the werewolf lets out a low whistle.

“That’s him. We got ‘im.”

“We’ll see…”

“Wait…w-what?”

An arm hooks his throat from behind, lifting him back and off his feet as if he weighs no more than a twig. Stiles lets out a high-pitched yelp and claws at the arm choking him, kicking at the air as he’s dragged away from the Jeep. The werewolf in front follows with an ugly smirk pulling his thin lips away from descended canines. He looks more like a street junkie, filthy and oversized clothing covering a tall and wiry frame with barely any muscle to compensate for his super-strength. That’s just not fair.

Wriggling like a worm on a hook, Stiles struggles in vain beneath the arm restraining him. An involuntary groan scrapes past his lips when claws grasp his skull _._ Snaps his head sideways at an odd, painful angle and digs sharp nails in the skin under Stiles’ eye. He sucks in a breath and holds it.

Another werewolf.

This day keeps getting better and better.

“Be smart, kid. Don’t make me tear off that pretty face,” the baritone behind him grunts. The deep rumble of his voice vibrates against Stiles’ back and he can tell this guy is _huge_ , if his arm threaded with thick muscle and bulging veins isn’t enough of a hint.  

Stiles jerks his chin and his muscles go lax. “Okay, okay…I get it. No more fighting the big bad wolf.”

“That’s better.”

After a silent beat, the man lowers him, gives Stiles his feet again. Twirls Stiles around with a sharp grip on his shoulder, making his head spin from the swift motion. He’s let go, staggering back into the chest of the smaller werewolf and he’s giggling like a hyena when he grabs Stiles’ biceps, squeezing too tight, and holds him. Definitely high on something and Stiles figures it’s a non-lethal form of wolf’s bane. He remembers Derek drinking beer laced with some, just enough to give that buzz effect, but nothing that could hurt him. The thought of werewolves doped up with more adrenaline than they already possess, the beast untamed, frightens Stiles. One little screw up and he may find himself torn limb from limb out of impulse – doesn’t matter if he’s worth more alive.  

Stiles eyes the burly werewolf. He’s slightly taller than Stiles and looks a lot like Vin Diesel without the big nose. The intimidation factor is the size of his arms – they are at least as big around as Stiles’ waist. Along with supernatural strength, this guy could easily lift a car without breaking a sweat.

“What do you…want?”

In response, the guy just stares back impassively; no scheming leer or anything, and that scares the shit out of Stiles. The junkie he can predict far better than the leader who has it all together. It’s usually the ones who show an insane amount of composure that are the most dangerous, the most powerful.

Panic threads its icy fingers through Stiles’ chest. All he needs is for Scott to hurry his ass up and find him. Still, the curiosity is nagging at Stiles. What _do_ they want? Do they know Peter? Stiles doesn’t put it past Peter sending lackeys; because the less he has to get his hands dirty the better.

Coward.

“You know, I don’t remember seeing your mugs around town before, so that makes me wonder where you guys came from. Seems to me you’re just a bunch of omegas stomping around territory that’s off limits. To be honest, it’s better you let me go. I’m annoying as hell and I have an over-active bladder—“

He never saw the attack coming as claws sliced a line of deep grooves from one shoulder to the other, almost cutting through bone and organs. Shit. Shit. _Shit_. Searing pain tears across Stiles’ chest and he reels with a gasping, breathless cry stuck in his constricted throat. His knees lose strength and his body slumps as if a string holding him up was cut. The junkie werewolf keeps him from crumbling to the ground by the solid grip around his arms.

That definitely wasn’t expected.

Favorite plaid shirt now bloody and in shreds, Stiles feels he needs a moment to mourn over its sudden demise. The gashes are already stitching back together, but Stiles is still hurting and he’s pissed, mainly over the shirt.

He lifts a steely glare, his voice clipped, but shaky when he demands, “What the hell was that for?”

With a nonchalant shrug, beefy werewolf blinks slowly and crosses his arms over his chest. “Had to make sure we have the right kid. Looks like you’re the real deal.”

The heat of anger flushes Stiles’ cheeks, his hands trembling. He straightens and tries shrugging off the other werewolf’s hold, but he only tightens his hands, cutting off circulation. He sneers over his shoulder, jerking his arms just for emphasis, before glaring at Vin Diesel wannabe. “And what if I wasn’t _that_ kid?”

He throws Stiles a look that clearly says _oh well_ and tips his chin at his minion before he makes a beeline for the woods, heading in the direction away from town.

The needle pricking Stiles’ neck doesn’t hurt so much as the injection does. He widens his eyes and stills, gasping. Clamps his jaw shut, teeth grinding as his body tenses when the foreign drug spreads through his system like a river of fire. He sinks back against the body behind him, puffing air out of his nose. Limbs weaken, his mind foggy. He feels bulky and light at the same time – that weird, yet familiar sensation he had after Peter kidnapped him and he couldn’t heal as fast.

Definitely feels he’s entitled to a glorified freak out session right about now, because _this_ kidnapping has Peter screaming all over it. As much as Stiles wants to find Peter, he doesn’t want it like this. Not weak and helpless again.  

Junkie werewolf snatches a fistful of Stiles’ hair and yanks his head back until the skin of his throat is stretched taut. “If I broke your neck, think could you heal that? Pro’lly not so much now.” Cackling, the werewolf tugs back on Stiles’ hair and elicits a pained grunt from him. 

Through gritted teeth, Stiles slurs, “N-never found a reason…to test that theory. Wha’d the hell…you give…me?”

Laughing, the werewolf ignores his question. Hot breath brushes over Stiles’ ear. Hairs stand on end along his neck and he recoils from the unwanted proximity. When his hair’s released he gulps in a lungful of air, but then his breath hitches as his left wrist is wrenched behind his back, lifted high between his shoulder blades. A sharp hiss whistles between clenched teeth and he stretches on his tiptoes for some measure of relief. He’s forced to move forward, but his feet are lead and his balance jacked. He trips and almost goes down on his knees if not for his arm restrained behind him.

“Hey, _hey_! Ease up, man. C’mon lemme walk.”  

“Ya sure ‘bout that, kid? You don’ look so good.”

“You’re an ass,” Stiles spits out.

Some of the pressure’s relieved on his arm and he releases an indignant moan. He senses the werewolf tensing, readying for an attack. Blind instinct takes over and Stiles rotates on the balls of his feet, using his center of gravity, and swings his fist around without consequence of _what_ he’s fighting or how muddled his senses are. His body’s gut reaction to defend itself kicks into frenetic overdrive. More out of surprise than actually inflicting injury, the werewolf gives an angry shout and releases Stiles. That tiny window of opportunity won’t stay open for much longer, and Stiles takes it. He pivots forward and makes a mad, yet sluggish dash in the opposite direction. He knows he can’t get far, but it’s the attempt that makes all the difference in his book.

He barely covers twenty feet when the werewolf plows into his back and brings him down _hard_ on a bed of loose dirt and leaves. He feels like that unfortunate player attacked by the opposing, monstrosity of a lineman on the field before the ball even leaves his hands. The wind is knocked out of him for seconds that seem like hours, lungs aching for air that the compression of added weight won’t allow. Panic takes over, the werewolf straddling his back, and all he can do is thrash around helplessly, mouth gaping open and closing like a fish. Vision darkens around the edges, his chest tightening, only making his struggles more frenzied. Somehow, he ends up head butting the werewolf in his wild flailing.

Unfortunately for Stiles, that’s the finger pulling the trigger on the werewolf’s rash streak of violence. There’s no restraint on the ragged scream that bubbles up from the depths of his abdomen, stealing the last bit of air his lungs tried holding onto when his arm is yanked back so hard and fast it breaks in two places. Skin tears like its paper when the radius snaps in half. That nauseating, squelching and cracking sound jounces in Stiles’ hearing and the pain so intense, he blacks out. Comes back around in a cold sweat, with bile stinging the back of his throat, but he’s no longer trapped under the werewolf. He scrambles away, holding his useless arm close to his chest, tears spilling over in a torrent.

“You fuckin’ brat! C’mere!”

“No—“

That damn concoction swimming in his veins keeps his arm from healing the right way. Glistening white bone exposed with the skin repairing around it – just another reason for Stiles’ hyperventilating. What the _hell_ is that drug? He chokes on a sobbing gasp, his lungs not cooperating along with the rest of his body, can’t seem to fucking _move_. He’s too slow – too damn slow. Only shuffles back in an awkward and lethargic crawl that leaves him vulnerable. The werewolf stalks after him, casting a shadow over Stiles in three easy strides, wielding fangs and claws, face screwed in a manic snarl. He raises his arm to strike, doesn’t notice the other werewolf sidling up behind him until enormous hands grasp his skull, and then he has that split second look of sheer terror before the bigger werewolf rips his head off his shoulders in one swift pull.

Dispensable, just like that.

The gut-jerking noise of the werewolf’s head torn from his spine is akin to a moldy and slimy, coagulated sauce slopping from a jar. Blood spurts, spraying Stiles’ face and he shrieks. He clambers for purchase to stand and run from the horror movie he just witnessed, but he’s barely on his knees when those massive hands grab his waist and hoist him off the ground. He’s tossed over the werewolf’s shoulder. Panic causes Stiles to fight like a feral animal trapped in a snare; frightened he’s going to meet the same gruesome end as the dismembered body.

“No! No! Let me _go_ —“

Stiles’ world is upside down, equilibrium fumbling as he sways like a pendulum. He retches when his broken arm’s jostled; splintered bone tearing through more flesh and Stiles loses the match with awareness. He floats in and out of consciousness like a slow rolling wave, lids fluttering in the hopeless attempt to stay open, stay alert, and not give in without a damn good fight. Mutters obscenities and protests from slack lips, but they’re ignored.      

A distant howl reaches his disarrayed senses and he’s not sure if he imagined it, as the hope for help seems all-consuming. His captor stops moving, jarring Stiles and he moans; clamps his eyes shut as another flush of nausea hits him. A second howl pitches in the air and Stiles knows he didn’t hallucinate this time. Even in the molasses-thick of his comprehension, he recognizes that sound, and a monumental wave of relief rushes over him.  

 _Scott_.

“S-Scott… _Scott! Here! Over here!_ ”

Stiles regains some vigor with the surety his pack is coming. Their presence is a tangible and powerful force of energy, and the lone werewolf senses this. He growls with obvious irritation and deposits Stiles on the ground without a care for his injuries, driving a raspy whine out of him. Stiles crawls away as fast as he can manage and pins his back against a fallen tree trunk, gaping at his mangled arm. The broken skin has mended around the protruding bone and Stiles almost throws up at the thought of having to reset it. He’s going to need the biggest dose of anesthesia for that nightmare. Better yet, use everything at the hospital. Let him sleep for a few weeks. That might help.

In the distance a few sharp yips resound and Stiles swivels his head around, searching until he spots a large black and brown wolf bounding towards his captor. Red eyes glint brighter at the sight of Stiles and then Scott bares his teeth in a venomous sneer. The drive in his speed increases. He pounces on the lone werewolf before he can fully shift and they tumble and roll along the forest floor in a blurred frenzy of tangled, thrashing limbs of fur and flesh. Howls and barks and yelps fill the woods and somewhere in the scuffle Scott is thrown off with a high-pitched cry. He gets back up as another black wolf appears and crashes into Stiles’ captor like a wrecking ball plowing into the side a brick building. The big werewolf goes down, trapped beneath Derek’s enormous paws. Low, deep growls roll from his raised lips, baring sharp teeth, and the hackles on Derek’s spine stand on end.

Stiles watches with a mixture of awe and fear as Derek bites down on the back of the werewolf’s neck, hundreds of pounds of pressure chomping and crushing, and the guy screams. His limbs are thrashing wildly, arms trying but failing to reach back and throw Derek off. To witness a hulk of a man reduced to blubbering just proves the immeasurable strength Derek possesses – alpha or not. The werewolf squirms underneath Derek, much like a cockroach twitching on a pegboard before a pushpin impales it.

Just as Derek clamps down harder and twists, Stiles yells with his hand outstretched, “No, wait!” but he’s too late from stopping Derek killing the werewolf. He convulses and flops when his spine is severed beneath Derek’s powerful jaws. Blood drips from his maw when he releases the body from his teeth. Stiles smells the overwhelming metallic tang, tastes it on his tongue from when it splattered on his face earlier. A shudder rocks his body, suddenly desperate for a shower.

Scott trots toward Stiles, eyeing his arm for a long beat before he whimpers, nudging Stiles’ shoe. He buries his fingers in the thick fur along Scott’s neck, holding onto that anchor – the warmth and influence of his best friend, his alpha. He’s shaking so hard his teeth chatter but the more he strokes Scott’s neck the tremors soon dissipate. A sense of calm spreads from within and he lets out a heavy exhale. Just having the wolves close gives Stiles some extra vitality, especially when he feels like he’s fought ten rounds with a brick wall and had his ass kicked each time.

Derek shakes out his fur and moves away from the body as if it’s an annoying, but helpless fly he finally caught, edging closer to Stiles and Scott. He’s sniffing the air, no doubt picking up Stiles’ chemo signals – exhaustion, agony, and anger. Just by Derek’s stance and Scott’s unblinking stare, they are worried about him. This time it’s more than welcome as Stiles feels as if he will keel over any second. Good thing he still has a firm, yet shaky hand clutched in Scott’s fur.       

“I’m okay,” Stiles murmurs with a doubtful measure of confidence, voice tight just like the smile he’s forcing for his friends’ sake. Brushes off the skeptical whale eye Scott directs at him and adds, “Okay, yeah…uh, maybe not so much. Guys…I think I need to see a doctor.”

Then he tips over, eyes rolling back in his head, and he doesn’t remember crashing to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not really canon for Derek to actually win a fight with another werewolf, but I have no doubt he possesses that strength to do it, and I wanted to write it so bad. Derek's a badass and he deserves that moment of glory every once in a while. 
> 
> Gah, I miss him!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many good things are coming up in the next few chapters. I can't wait to get them posted for you. Here's another "filler" chapter, but it does have some essential information. Thank you Google Translate and the Internet for providing endless ideas on the world of magic.

With the refreshing touch of a washcloth dabbing his forehead, Stiles creeps his way towards consciousness and feeling like he finished the Iron Man Triathlon without any training. His entire body aches, places hurting that he didn’t even think existed until now. The headache isn’t only a dull throb, but sharp stabs pulsating and prodding with the rhythm of his heartbeat. He winces and that just makes it worse. Some foreign, raspy sound crawls out of his throat and he blinks his eyes wide open, but regrets it immediately after. Realizes he’s at the vet clinic when he hears the muffled whining and barking of animals from the back room. A shadow hovers, blocking out the dim lighting overhead, and slowly the silhouette forms into Melissa’s patented tender, motherly smile cooing him to rest. She strokes the wet cloth across his face and his eyelids flutter closed. He doesn’t even fight to stay awake. 

He dreams of the Nemeton. Has one of those bizarre out of body experiences as he watches _himself_ in the dream. Dream-Stiles looks like he’s being sacrificed on the base of the ancient tree, lying prone and spread eagle, but not tied down. He’s staring straight at Stiles, mouthing over and over _please_. Looks frail and vulnerable on the mammoth tree, the whites of his eyes glinting as tears pool and spill over. Stiles feels as if he’s going to throw up.

Curiosity, along with the impulse to help, has Stiles moving forward. He’s stopped short when his legs won’t budge. He can only watch with dread weighing him down as a dozen or so hooded figures encircle dream-Stiles’ body, uttering a creepy, wicked chant that sounds a lot like Gaelic. Stiles shivers when a wave of goosebumps pimple his skin. One of the figures breaks from the perfect circle and climbs on the tree on all fours, cloak sluicing off broad shoulders, and revealing a swiftly changing wolf with a long stripe of silver on its chest. That pattern is distinct. Only one wolf Stiles has ever known bears that mark of silver.

Peter.

Stiles’ heart plummets and he chokes as an icy hand squeezes his chest. Red eyes burn and the wolf tips his head back with a long and triumphant howl. Stiles opens his mouth and screams, but nothing comes out. He flounders when he tries fighting against the paralysis keeping him prisoner. He’s helpless and all he can do is watch as Peter’s teeth dive for dream-Stiles’ chest and gouge his heart out with one swift yank through flesh and bone. When a glaring, electrified light explodes from dream-Stiles’ open wound and engulfs the clearing, Stiles jolts out of the dream as if tethered to a bungee cord. He almost topples off the metal examination table with a strangled cry. Lucky for him Scott’s there, steadying him back on the table. The vestiges of the dream – or was it a vision? – linger and Stiles can’t shake it off. He feels the prickling of energy just beneath his skin’s surface, his limbs tingling.

It becomes an uphill struggle for his lungs to contract and fill with oxygen, and all he can manage are weak, unsteady and shallow breaths that leave him dizzy. He squeezes his eyes shut with a silent, desperate plea for control.

 _Just a dream. It was just a dream, Stiles. It’s not real. It’s not real._  

“Hey…hey, you okay, bro?” Scott’s hand is a firm solace on his shoulder, and he flicks his gaze up, swallows hard.

Stiles combs a trembling hand through his hair. Pulls a deep inhale and forces it out slowly. He repeats the method once, twice and then again before twitching his head in affirmation. But he knows it’s not convincing, especially with the deep furrow of Scott’s brow. He fixes Stiles with a penetrating stare, though he doesn’t say anything. As usual, he doesn’t press the matter. With Stiles so used to compartmentalizing just about _everything_ that concerns his feelings, Scott has adapted to not extracting those feelings from him, even as his face says he would like nothing more than to sit on Stiles and make him spill everything in one long breath. Stiles is thankful and disappointed at the same time and those contradictions war against each other every day.    

He sits up, swinging his legs over the edge, and stares at his arm now perfectly whole and healed. Gauze and bandages still cover it, splotches of blood visible against the stark white cloth. He idly scratches where the bone was sticking out the last time he looked at it, and he gulps when a strange feeling twinges in his gut. Part nausea and part thrill. He still can’t grasp what he can do or what he has become while the other side of him finds it awesome he doesn’t have to go through surgery and wear a cast for six weeks. That he can walk away from an attack fairly quickly with a few phantom pains as his only complaint.

“What happened…after I…?” Stiles croaks, cringes at the noise scraping out of his throat and licks his lips when Scott hands him bottled water. He downs the entire thing in one breath, heaving in a lungful after. God, that feels good against the sandpaper roughness of his mouth and throat.

Scott lets out a heavy sigh and leans back against the table, crossing his arms. “You’ve been out for over a day. Deaton had to set the bone, but you kept fighting it and the drug was wearing off. It kept healing wrong. You woke up a few times until he gave you ketamine to knock you out. It was the only thing strong enough.”

Shaking his head, Stiles whispers, “I don’t remember any of that.”

“Trust me, it’s a good thing you don’t. You were so out of it and wild, man. It scared the hell out of me.”

“M’sorry,” Stiles mumbles and rubs the heels of his palms against his eyelids. “Thanks for saving my ass, bro.”

Scott gives him a lopsided smile and pats him on the back.  

“Deaton’s looking into what you were injected with. We were able to find the syringe from the woods. He thinks it may be the same stuff that he used to suppress the nogistune back when I was impaled by the Oni’s sword. Makes sense using something that would suppress your abilities.”

Stiles fights for composure at the memory of _his_ hands holding the Oni's sword and driving the blade through his best friend’s stomach. Not his thoughts or his motives, but still his hands that dealt the hurtful blow. Goosebumps tickle his skin and he shivers. Scott’s hand on his back presses harder, anchoring Stiles back in the present. He blinks and physically shakes out of that momentary stupor.  

“Lichen. I’m not a fox spirit, so how would that still work?”

“But you have the traits of a fox, maybe that’s why it didn’t suppress it all the way. You were still healing, but at a slower rate, right?”

Stiles idly rubs at the bandage, his skin itchy underneath. “Yeah, I guess.” He moistens his lips and peels back the tape holding the bandage on his arm, reveals unblemished skin underneath dried blood, and adds in a distant voice, “I think Peter sent those werewolves after me. For what, I don’t know.”

Scott’s brow crinkles and he frowns. “I didn’t catch his scent…”

Stiles shakes his head, stopping Scott from denying what he knows is true. He won’t accept anything else. His hands twitch with the anxiety building. “No, no it was him, I know it. Peter used the same drug on me when he took my dad and me. I couldn’t heal. Peter broke my wrist and it took several hours instead of minutes. Just like this time.”

“Okay. All right, bro. We’ll figure it out.” The look on Scott’s face says otherwise and Stiles screws his own into a pout, shaking his head harder. The alpha moves his hand on Stiles’ shoulder gently, cautiously. He tries smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll keep looking into it, okay? I promise. Just because I didn’t smell him on those guys doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”

“He was,” Stiles supplies in a clipped tone, breathing escalates, fingers quivering. “He wants something from me and he’s recruiting others to get it for him. He could’ve easily killed me after my dad, but he left. He just left. Why? Why didn’t he finish what he said he came for? He said I was an obstacle in his way, so why not get rid of me for good? I don’t get it. Hell, maybe because he’s a sadistic bastard and thought that letting me soak in the reality that he _murdered_ _my dad right in front of me_ was just as a good as incentive to get me out of his way,” he says, his voice rising with each word until he’s breathless. The metal table rattles beneath his trembling body and he can’t stop. He pulls in a long breath as Scott leans back, blinking his eyes wide, mouth hanging open.

“Stiles, I—“

Derek walks in with Lydia in tow before Scott can finish.

Stiles curls his fingers into fists, nails digging into his palms, and tries hiding how badly he’s shaking. Lydia brushes past Derek and heads straight for Stiles, her hands gently uncoiling his rigid fingers and interlaces them with her own. Her big, soft eyes lock on his for something, he doesn’t know what. Doesn’t really care, as having her near eases a little more of the anxiety making itself cozy in his gut. She leans closer and presses her forehead on his, and he releases a long, weary breath. Muscles relax and Stiles forgets for a moment.

“Thank you,” he breathes out barely above a whisper. He feels her smile and she squeezes his hands.

“You’re going to be okay,” she murmurs and the promise in her voice is uplifting for a brief moment, but reality will soon drag Stiles back down. He’s never ready, no matter the inevitability. “Promise me you won’t run away like that again. Please, Stiles.”

He can only nod, throat tightening around his words.   

“You’re staying here tonight,” Derek announces from his perch on the doorframe, arms folded, though he’s staring at Scott with narrowed eyes. “And some of us will stay with you. It’s the safest place.”  

“Why?” Stiles lifts his head, eyes bouncing between the two wolves.

Scott nods, stands up straight, as if assuming that position of authority within the pack after Derek’s statement. “We’re not letting you out of our sight. After last night we need to keep our guard up for any other threats towards you. Deaton’s working on wards to throw off your scent and putting up a barrier so nothing can get in,” Scott declares, using that deep, strict alpha tone, but it doesn’t faze Stiles. Considering he’s known Scott all his life, it’s amusing more than anything.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you expecting more coming?” Stiles’ gaze lingers on Lydia and he watches her do that nervous lip pull between her teeth as she averts her eyes from his hard stare. He points a look at Derek then settles on Scott, twisting his face with restless confusion. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Word is spreading about you. Fast.” Despite the perpetual scowl marring Derek’s face, he looks about as casual as someone talking about the weather. That doesn’t help Stiles’ anxiety one bit. “What you’re becoming and what you can do is raising a lot of attention. Some think you’re a threat, while others will do anything to have such a powerful emissary in their pack. You’re not safe.”

“I’m not powerful if I can’t control whatever it is I am. Besides, since the night Scott was bitten, my life has been nothing _but_ dangerous. I made the choice to stick around no matter the amount of risks I was taking. I’ve managed this far. I’ll be fine. So, sorry to burst your little bubble of whatever protective streak you guys have going in those wolfy brains, but I’m not going along with this.”

“It’s just until we can figure out what exactly you’re capable of, and put together a solid game plan.”

Taken aback, Stiles blinks rapidly at Lydia. Funny she would interject with _that_ excuse. “With the rate we’re going on figuring out what exactly _you_ can do, I’ll be locked up for the rest of my life. No thanks.”

“Stiles—“

“Let them come,” Stiles interrupts Scott, fixing him with an unwavering glare. “You’re the one that’s always running head first into shit to save people. Why are we hiding now? Besides, what better way to draw them out and get rid of the problem faster. I know I’ll sleep better at night.”  

Derek draws out a longsuffering sigh, rubbing the skin between his eyes. “Stop being irrational, Stiles. That’s how you get yourself killed.”  

“Really? Me irrational, huh? This is coming from the king of foolish decisions. Don’t get me started on your poor attempt at making a pack. Or better yet, Peter. Now that’s a fuck up if I ever saw one.”

That was a low blow, but Stiles doesn’t try hard enough taking it back as the guilt pokes at him. His mouth clamps shut and he looks down at his hands on his lap, away from Derek. They’ve all made regrettable decisions, and digging those back up doesn’t solve a damn thing. Especially with those who are risking life and limb to help him and all he’s doing is shoving them back. If he keeps pushing, he won’t have anyone for much longer. He pulls in a deep breath, nostrils flaring, as he stares up at the ceiling. Rubs his sweaty palms over the denim of his jeans, feels the dried blood caked in the fabric and scratching his skin underneath. 

A tick jumps in Derek’s jaw. He fights hard for control, possessing grace that’s almost unbecoming of him. If Stiles is really honest with himself, he wants Derek’s temper flaring, showing fangs and all, threatening to punch Stiles. He _needs_ that anger to anchor him rather than the barrage of sympathy he can’t seem to escape. He’s tired of everyone wrapping him in a cotton burrito and sheltering him from the world. He needs truth rather than comfort. He needs action rather than solace.

Lydia steps between them, ready to ward off any potential macho chest slamming. She shoots Derek a silent warning before facing Stiles,settling him with a stern look. “Derek’s right. You are acting ridiculous. You won’t get far if you keep running into this blind and without backup. We’re not going anywhere, no matter how much you try to push us away. If roles were reversed you’d fight and never give up trying to help. Just because it’s you doesn’t make a difference. Doesn’t change anything.”

Scott adds, “You’re not just part of this pack. You’re my brother, you’re everything to me and the rest of us, and I love you, man. You’re the glue that keeps us together. I can’t lose you.”

Tears billow, but don’t spill. Stiles gulps down the rapid rising emotions and nods. “You won’t,” he croaks and swipes his sleeve across his eyes, catches a few stray tears that fell. He closes his eyes and exhales. When Scott touches his shoulder, he slumps forward, eyes opening.

“Whoa…” Scott gasps, backpedaling, but not from fear; more of a child-like wonder. “Your eyes, Stiles, they’re—”

“What…what about my eyes?”

“They’re glowing green,” Lydia quips with a wide-eyed stare.

Stiles pushes off the table and peers into the nearest reflective stainless steel cabinet. His face is a distorted lump through the opaque surface, but the circles of bright green, like fresh moss after a rain, are clear as day. He blinks rapidly, but the color doesn’t fade back to his normal brown. There’s a switch, but he doesn’t know where it is or how to flip it off. Story of his life.  

“What is it about glowing eyes in this town? Seriously,” he mutters and closes his eyes. Clinches them tight until prisms of color splash across the inside of his lids, then slowly opens them, finally revealing brown instead of green. Out of a natural impulse, his shoulders sag, a swift sigh escaping when a resemblance of normalcy has returned, though temporary.

“You’re becoming _crann na beatha_ ,” Deaton states, as if cued to enter the room at that opportune time.

He whirls, mouth gaping. “I’m becoming _what_? What does that even mean?”

“It’s Gaelic for Tree of Life,” the Druid explains with his brow quirked and a peculiar glint in his eyes.

“Are you saying I’m going to turn into a tree? Do you even realize how crazy that sounds?”

“Just the embodiment…or more like a vessel for the spirit.”

Vessel. Possession.

Stiles staggers back as memories of the naked helplessness of being trapped in his own body, unable to do or say anything, and forced to watch, feel, and hear the nogistune spread a path of destruction and despair slaps him across the face. _Again_. He can’t escape it, never will, and to think he is becoming a vessel for another spirit threatens to tear him apart. Vision sways and his lungs rattle when he heaves in air too fast. Body quakes; skin feeling too tight and scraped raw. His chest aches. No, it _burns_ while muscles seize up, encasing him in a prison of his own hysteria.

“That doesn’t help. That doesn’t help _at all_ ,” he hisses through clenched teeth, shaking his head with a furious frenzy, backing into the cabinet as he waves his hands around with the same wildness. He needs out, needs fresh air; the walls are closing in.  

“You know what? I’m done with this shit. I want a rewind button. This…this, whatever you just said, I want to _un-hear_ it. I’m done.” He stumbles forward, searching frantically for the Jeep’s keys, starts pacing in a small circle. Is the Jeep even at the clinic? “Where are my keys? Where are they? Give ‘em to me. Who has them?”

Scott’s in front of him, hand reaching out. The panic is hot and frayed and seconds from cracking. He slams his back against the steel cabinet with a resounding bang and a gasp spills from his lips. Doesn’t mean to – and hates the look of raw hurt splashing across his best friend’s face – but he reels back from Scott when he touches his arm. He closes his eyes and tears clot his lashes, an apology on his trembling lips, but all he can mutter is: “Don’t—”  

“Stiles! _Listen._ ” Deaton’s voice is steady, but booms like a clap of thunder in the room, startling everyone.

Stiles jumps; suddenly fatigued as the adrenaline high starts its swift crash and drags him down. He slumps against the cabinet, panting. Scrubs a hand over his face and focuses on Deaton through heavy lids, vision blurry by unshed tears.  

“It’s nothing like the nogistune, I promise you. This time it’s different. The tree spirit is not a persona of strife and chaos, but a source of light that represents balance and harmony. The Tree of Life was rooted deep in the underworld along with its branches spreading toward the heavens. It could bring life and also take it. You possess that power now and you will have total control…once you exploit the powers correctly. I will help with that, but you have to let me.”  

“If I’m so powerful, as you keep saying, then what the hell was I injected with? Because that didn’t make me feel powerful in the least,” Stiles says hoarsely and catches Scott nodding, wanting answers along with him, from the corner of his eye.

“Decayed marrow from the Nemeton’s branches,” Deaton simply answers. “It’s like wolf’s bane to werewolves. In extreme quantities, it can be fatal.”

“Oh, right…of course. Should’ve thought of that.”

“Only Druids and a handful of witches know of its effect on magic, especially magic native to the Nemeton.”

“Like dead man’s blood,” Stiles replies.

“Like what?” Scott blinks owlishly.

“The show…Supernatural? The Winchesters use dead man’s blood to poison vampires? Bueller anyone?” Stiles raises his brows, but only receives apathetic stares in response. He rolls his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I keep forgetting that I’m talking to a bunch of people who know nothing of pop culture. Deprived minds.”

Deaton continues explaining without missing a beat. “I found traces of it in the serum along with a poisonous flower called _atropa belladonna_ , or more commonly known as Deadly Nightshade. That was used to weaken you.”

Lydia wrings her hands, pulling her bottom between her teeth, and asks, “Do you know what Peter wants with Stiles?”

“Other than unlimited power and reverence born from fear?” Deaton shakes his head, mouth drawn tight in a pensive frown. “No. I’m still looking into his particular interest in Stiles as I’m trying to locate the witch Peter used to get the poison. Likely he wants you eliminated before another pack has a chance to grab you, but I’m speculating he wants you as his pack’s emissary.”

“I won’t do it, he has to know that.”

Deaton’s frown deepens. “He’ll find new ways of manipulating you for his own agenda. That’s why you and your friends need to stay close. Keep each other safe. Let them help you. Not only will isolating yourself become dangerous for you, but it could threaten them as well. The pack is more powerful in numbers.”  

Nodding with a solemn sigh, Stiles swallows hard and still feels the tickle of tears at the back of his throat. It seems like a monumental effort when he pushes away from the metal cabinet, and once that solid wall isn’t holding him upright, his legs wobble. Fatigue swaths him, weighing down muscle and bone until he feels like a cooked noodle. Lydia loops an arm around his back. She may look delicate, but she’s strong in more than the physical, and she holds Stiles upright. He clings to her, as he feels like a child in desperate need of his mother’s tender touch that can drive away any remnants of doubt or fear. He wants his friends close; wants to fall asleep amidst a pile of safe, warm and lulled by the body heat and steady breathing surrounding him. Lately, that’s the only time he ever feels stable.  

“Can I just… I need sleep in a real bed with my pillow. Can we please just go home for tonight?” 

Derek huffs out a short breath and pushes away from the wall, unfolding his arms. His gaze has softened considerably, but it’s not a look of pity, just a friend who cares. “You can stay at my place. I have the room for everyone. We can figure out a game plan in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's Peter up to? Will Stiles ever gain control of his magic? Until next time...
> 
> Thank YOU for reading and supporting this work. You are the lifeblood that keeps my fingers typing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with panic attacks and throwing up. Nothing graphic on the vomit, just mentioned. 
> 
> Also, I realized after re-reading the previous chapters, I made a boo-boo in Ch. 9 concerning the details of the Oni attack outside the vet clinic and the drug used on the nogistune to paralyze it. I had it where it was Kira's sword that impaled Scott, but after watching that episode over, I was wrong. Sorry for that! It's all fixed now. :)

“He’s losing it. Stiles is spiraling out of control and I don’t know what to do.”

The knife misses the tomato and almost slices through Stiles’ thumb when he flinches, overhearing Scott’s hushed confession. He blinks hard, heartbeat erratic and he fights for composure with a few solid, deep breaths. Expects Scott and Derek to notice, but they don’t or they ignore it. They must think there’s enough distance between the kitchen island and the sofa clear across the length of the loft. But Stiles listens. He’s always listening.

He keeps his head down, feigning focus on cutting the veggies for the burgers Lydia is cooking behind him.

“He thinks Peter’s involved, that he sent those werewolves after him. But we both didn’t get a trace of Peter on either of them.”

His shoulders stiffen, jaw clenching.

Derek replies, “He’s grieving in the only way he knows how. If he needs to fixate on Peter right now, then let him.”

“He’s going to get himself killed.”

Stiles fights against the compulsion to toss down the knife and walk out, or better yet, throw the knife at Scott, but then Derek’s defense keeps him there, keeps him balanced. He lets out a soft exhale, but it’s still shaky.

“He’s stronger than you give him credit for. And smarter.”

Stiles hears the barest of sighs from Scott, a sign of resignation. “I’m not doubting his strength. I doubt his sanity right now. You’ve gotta admit, he’s not the same person. I’m scared for him…”

“Did you expect him to stay the same after watching his dad get slaughtered in front of him? He’s lost a lot, Scott, and he’s going through more than we can imagine.”

“No, but— Shit, I don’t know.”

Stiles catches a glimpse of Scott dragging a hand over his face. In that brief moment he seems as if the weight of the world crashed on him; shoulders sagging, dark circles under his eyes, and the crease on his forehead deeper. Stiles knows Scott carries more duties than is required of a teenager, especially with being alpha, but dammit Stiles needs his friend to not lose faith in him. Stiles needs security in the midst of his world going to shit in a hand basket, and for his best friend to sit there and question Stiles’ actions and reactions as if they are not legitimate or justified is like a kick in the balls. After everything they went through together, now is a shitty time to doubt Stiles’ state of mind.

He’s not _fine_. He knows that; has to live with that fact every fucking day. If they really want to get technical about it, Stiles hasn’t been _fine_ since his mom died. Shame on him for expressing his brokenness in the only way he knows how. Shame on him if he so much as breathes the wrong emotion, letting that game face slip and expose the real and raw ache he feels on a constant basis. No, he has to bottle it up and keep it tightly sealed for the sake of his friends and his dad.

Damn Scott and his holier-than-thou True Alpha bullshit. _Damn_ him. He’s not perfect, far from it, yet he holds these high expectations of others they will never reach, especially with Stiles.

Lydia covers his hand with hers and he drops the knife from numb fingers; the warm contact jolting the icy anger from settling too deep in his bones. The steel blade causes a loud clatter on the wooden cutting board, seizing the attention of Derek and Scott in the middle of their hushed conversation. They stare with a mixture of pity and surprise and Stiles’ skin crawls. He shudders. People surround him, all the time, but he has never felt so alone.

“I’m fine,” he blurts out, voice too clipped and on edge; pulls his hand away from Lydia as he steps back. He tries ignoring the burning sensation of too many pairs of eyes on him, gouging him, waiting for him to literally snap, but he can’t let it go. The quiet, but stressed anticipation sucks the oxygen from the room. “I’m _fine_!”

He rushes for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him; leans against the solid barrier, and chokes on air that keeps catching in his throat. The panic attack climbs with each hitched breath, like a savage bull writhing in a cage, and he bends over with a broken gasp. He clutches at his shirt, scratching at his chest, desperate for air that seems lost. He sinks to his knees on the tile floor, limbs useless. Tears well up and muddle his sight.

Violent spasms hit him like a sucker punch, the nausea gurgling up with only a seconds warning. He scrambles forward on all fours when the sourness of vomit bites on his tongue, and he barely clears the toilet before he retches what meager food he had eaten before. A cold sweat drenches his clothes and hair, and he shivers as he slumps against the opposite wall, legs sprawled around the base of the toilet. He swipes at the stray tears and bile on his face with an irritated hiss, but the tears keep coming. His diaphragm aches with uncontrollable sobs as it feels like a levee swelling until it overflows and ruptures.

When Derek opens the bathroom door and wordlessly lowers next to Stiles on the floor, he shrinks away with a burning shame. He hates his weakness and his failure to get a tighter rein on the anxiety, but more than anything he hates it when someone witnesses the vulnerability cracked open and exposed like the ground after an earthquake. But Derek only stares at him, brows pulled together, and the lines of his mouth and eyes soft, solicitous.

“Go…away. _Please_ ,” Stiles splutters through the gut churning sobs that just won’t _stop_. He turns his face from Derek, tries hiding the snot and spittle and frailty. His chest hurts. His head is pounding. He strikes his fists on the floor, letting out a frustrated scream through clenched teeth. A wail bubbles up and spills out, breathing hitched and choppy and hurting his lungs. “I can’t…I can’t…stop. I’m not…not crazy. _I’m not crazy_.”

Derek doesn’t say anything as he slides his arm around Stiles and pulls him into a consoling embrace. He doesn’t fight, just sinks against the firm and warm chest and lets the grief and anger surface in a torrent of tears. Every bit of his strength deteriorates, but Derek holds him with a promise of not letting go. He holds Stiles with a silent understanding, not out of pity, and it makes Stiles cry harder. Not from sadness, but relief. He clutches at Derek’s shirt, burrowing his face in the cotton at the curve of the werewolf’s shoulder, clinging to him because _Derek_ is the one pulling him from the murky waters he’s been drowning in.

Not Lydia. Not Scott. _Derek_.

The past several weeks gush out of Stiles. He can’t help it. With his ear pressed against Derek’s chest, listening to the steady drum of his heartbeat, Stiles babbles on in a garbled stream about missing his dad; Peter’s motives; the pack walking on eggshells with him; homework that’s piling up; the Jeep’s desperate need for a tune-up; the fucking Nemeton and the hailstorm of shit it keeps bringing up.

There’s no cohesion as he jumps from one topic and back to another until he brings up his dad again. He just talks and talks; retelling memories that oddly don’t make him sad. Having someone listen makes it easier somehow and the words flow without a care. Derek’s silent presence is that balm Stiles has been scrambling for to give him reprieve so he can _breathe_. And he can. When he heaves in a lungful, the vice has let up and his chest doesn’t ache as much.

They sit on the bathroom room floor for a long, wordless time that passes in a lazy and comfortable crawl. Before Stiles would find this disconcerting, being held in Derek’s arms, but the only word that comes to mind now is: right. It feels right and it feels good.

“You believe me…right? I’m not losing my mind. I know Peter’s involved somehow.”

Derek nods, his chin bobbing gently on the crown of Stiles’ head. “You know Scott; he needs tangible evidence before he can believe something. He doesn’t see things the way you do.”

“I wish he would sometimes. Lately, I feel like he doesn’t recognize me…doesn’t get me at all.”

“Scott cares about you, and he’s looking out for you in the way he knows how. But he doesn’t get it – loss. Not like we do.”

“What about Allison?” Stiles whispers and pangs of remorse stab his middle at the mention of her name. He vainly claws at the phantom aches with a low moan.

Derek’s arms tighten around Stiles; the pressure a relief rather than constricting. He relaxes, closing his eyes.

“I’m not downplaying Allison’s death. But it’s different. It’s different when you lose family. Something inside of you is stolen, something you can never get back… I can’t explain it, but you know. The emptiness you feel after losing family seems like a chasm in comparison to a friend or lover dying.”

Stiles’ chin quivers, tears swelling and dripping over. He wishes he didn’t know all too well what that gnawing rift feels like. It is a permanent throbbing, opening wider and wider, like growing pains that never go away. Some days are better than others, but the pain never stops.

“You always believe me. Why is that?”

Derek hums, the soft vibration tickling the top of Stiles’ skull. “Because you see things that we don’t. We tend to run above that radar, but you always catch things that we overlook. You look in places we wouldn’t think to. You observe where we run in with our claws out, ready for a fight.”

“I’m not patient,” Stiles snorts, frowning. “I’m the polar opposite of anything remotely patient.”

“Not so much that, but you’re determined. You’re loyalty keeps you driven. When you suspect something or trust something you don’t give up. Your tenacity is your best trait. Never lose that.”

Stiles pushes away and looks at Derek. Really looks at him and somehow sees him for the first time. A new perspective that allows Stiles to see past the incessant glower and snark no doubt Derek wears as a mask, and sees his compassion and unquestionable dependability. If Stiles is honest with himself, Derek has been open and faithful more than Scott – his best friend since four. He doesn’t question Stiles’ reasoning or actions as much, because he seems to understand more where Scott can’t. Their moral compasses veer in different directions, where Scott’s stays in one position, never moving.

More and more Scott acts as if he has a sense of obligation to set himself apart. Not that he’s better than the rest of the pack, but being the alpha has bigger responsibilities and burdens. Stiles understands that, accepts it, but he still needs his _friend_ , not the alpha. He needs a semblance of that shy, squishable asthmatic kid with a heart the size of Texas that he met on the playground to come back.

Scott’s heart has always been brighter and more optimistic than Stiles’. Where Scott forgives too easy, gives the benefit of the doubt, and views the world in black and white, Stiles questions everything. And the trend is when every time a new baddie finds Beacon Hills as prime real estate for their evil agenda, Stiles is right about not trusting them or giving them a hint of benefit. He wishes Scott would lift that shroud over his eyes and _see_ for once.

“Sometimes I wonder what our lives would be like if Peter never bit Scott.” Stiles cringes, rubs at the spot between his eyes. “Probably still trying to survive high school with me drooling over Lydia and shoved against lockers by Jackson. Stupid, I know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I think it’s perfectly healthy to think about what-ifs, because they sometimes have the potential to change the course of your thinking now.”

Suddenly, Stiles laughs. A small burst of sound, a snort really, but elates him all the same. “Oh, wise Derek. You humble me with your words.”

Derek thwacks Stiles on the arm and rolls his eyes. He squirms with a small yelp and moves further away from the werewolf, pulling a disgusted grimace when he wipes a hand down and over his face and feels the salty residue of tears. Stands on wobbly legs and douses his face with cold water from the sink. Derek stands like a nimble sentry behind him, leaning his frame against the wall with arms folded over his chest, and Stiles stares at him through the mirror’s reflection; ignores his own.

“Hey, um, I’m sorry for what I said at the clinic. I didn’t mean—“

“Yes you did.” But Derek shrugs, rests his head back on the wall, reassuring Stiles with the tiny hint of a smile. He adds, “Water under the bridge, though.”

Stiles squints, but returns the smile. He tries conveying, with just a look, how grateful he is for Derek’s company, especially now, but he can’t seem to get the true meaning across with how much he is indebted. He only looks awkward and mushy, and Derek cocks a brow with that telltale smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t push away from Scott,” then Derek says, stepping away from the wall, all seriousness back. “He’s trying and he will fail sometimes, but he’s trying. And you two need each other.”

“I know,” he replies with a solemn nod. He plants his hands on the edge of the sink and leans forward, water still dripping from his nose and chin. “Lately, I just feel like an exposed wire that’s ready to short out. I’m so _tired,_ but I can’t sleep because I can’t stop this burning inside me that needs to keep moving. This is different. It’s eating me up. I need something to work with and I have _nothing_.”

“You’ll be able to feed that once you start training with Deaton.”

Stiles nods again, closing his eyes with a forced exhale through gritted teeth.

“Peter is endgame, okay? First, you need to focus on the magic and get a better grasp on it.”

He opens his eyes and reluctantly agrees with a jerky twitch of his head, lips pulled tight around his words: “I know.”

“I haven’t stopped looking for Peter,” Derek supplies, “but he has a knack for sneaking off and covering his tracks unless he wants to be found. If those werewolves were involved with Peter somehow, then he’s close.”

“Yeah and probably three steps ahead of us. I feel like we’re just sitting around with our thumbs up our asses waiting for him to strike.”

“That’s why we need to stick together.”

Stiles gives Derek a cynical twitch of his brow and snorts beneath the towel he uses while drying his face. “What? So he can hurt you guys to get to me?” He tosses the towel down with a scowl. “No, that’s a horrible plan. I veto it. I think we should be strategizing something so we’re ready when he decides to come out of his cowardly hole. For once I would like the element of surprise on my side.”

Derek pulls that infuriating _oh really_ face when his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Stiles glares back, pointing a finger at the werewolf, waggling it at him for emphasis.

“Don’t. You know I’m right.”

“No, I think you’re an idiot.”

“And you’re a dick, so now we’re even.”

Derek’s nostrils flare as he pulls in a long breath, staring at Stiles with a parody of tolerance that only makes him look constipated. He huffs out with a dramatic eye roll, “You’re insufferable. But what did you have in mind in terms of a plan?”

Stiles open his mouth with a sharp inhale, ready to spill, but then his jaw goes lax and he blinks hard. “I… don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead, actually.”

“Stiles. The one with a plan doesn’t have a plan. We’re doomed.”

Flashing his teeth, Stiles retorts, “Hey, it’s a work in progress. I haven’t had a lot of time to, you know, formulate plans and all. I’ve been preoccupied with just…killing the bastard. Didn’t think about the in between details. Besides, genius ideas don’t happen overnight.”

Derek coughs up a derisive laugh and Stiles flaps his hand dismissively, puffing out air between tight lips. He sidesteps the werewolf and heads for the kitchen, no better time than now to face the music _again_ even if he is reluctant. All he wants is to burrow under the covers and have a solid night of sleep for once. He hasn’t experienced real sleep in so long he forgot what it feels like. Imagines it must be like someone deprived of water for days and then when that crisp, cool liquid touches the tongue it is sweet, blissful heaven with angels singing _Hallelujah_.

His bones ache for that respite and he eyes Derek’s bed as if a Siren is whispering in his ear, luring him with sweet promises of rest, yet he knows it is a lie. Appetite lost after throwing up the remnants of whatever he had the last time he ate something makes him want to skip returning to the kitchen. The thought of food or even looking at it has his stomach rolling and he stalls. He swallows hard. Hears Lydia talking to Scott, but he can’t make out the details.

Derek stands behind him, hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles drags his bottom lip between his teeth and mumbles, “Not hungry, is all.”

The hand on his shoulder squeezes gently and Derek offers, “Go lie down. I’ll call Deaton to see if he has anything that can help you sleep.”

Almost as if he needed someone to make that decision for him, to say it was okay, Stiles relents with a strained sigh, slinking toward the bed like an overcooked noodle. Legs wobble and his arms are dead weight at his sides; the fatigue hitting him with the ferocity of a fastball pitch. He curls up around his middle and closes his eyes, while Derek joins Scott and Lydia in the main area of the loft. He hears them whispering for several minutes before the soft rustle of movement nears the bed.

Opening his eyes to slits, he finds Scott standing there looking every bit like a dejected dog that was abandoned at the shelter. Not seeking pity, but that is just Scott’s patented appearance with the over-abundance of emotions he wears on his sleeve on a daily basis. Stiles can’t blame him for trying, even when he screws up, and he pushes aside his prior indignation and extends his arm for Scott to come forward.

Scott stiffens, chewing on the inside of his cheek, wringing his hands before he takes those few tentative steps until he’s kneeling by the bed. Head hangs low and if he was in his wolf form, he would have his tail between his legs. For a True Alpha, he damn sure if a big softy and Stiles smiles. That’s his friend. That’s Scott.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles beats him to it and says, “Jus’ shut up, bro and come here.” He pulls Scott in for a hug and his best friend holds on tight, burying his face against Stiles’ shoulder with a barely there shudder.

“I got you,” Scott murmurs against Stiles’ neck. “I’ve always got you.”

“Yeah, I know bro... I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sterek is happening. Not sexual, but feelings are developing. 
> 
> Next chapter, Stiles trains with Deaton. Dun dun dun.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This chapter kicked my ass. I had to edit a particular scene so many times because it just wouldn't cooperate. Hopefully it's smoothed out now and doesn't come off cheesy or forced. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy and would love to hear what you think! :D

“Again.”

Stiles tosses his hands up. “I _can’t_! This isn’t working. I can’t focus.”

Deaton’s unfazed and blinks casually, supplying, “Meditation is the exercise of single-pointed thought. It will help harness the energy inside you, in order for you to use your magic at its fullest potential. Try again.”

Stiles has been at this for what seems like hours, but with nothing other than frustration as a result. What Deaton is demanding of him is impossible – Stiles plus focusing on one thing at a time is a mix that doesn’t exist. It’s taboo.  

With a twitch of his brow, Stiles retorts, _“You_ don’t even know what I’ve become and you want me to unleash all of it?”

“That rune circle should contain any mishaps.”

“Should,” Stiles snorts, rubbing his sweaty palms over his denim-clad thighs. Moistens his lips and shifts back in to a cross-legged position in the middle of the large circle Deaton created, hands dangling over his knees. Said circle was placed in the center of a small clearing in the preserve. It’s only him and Deaton – no distractions. He feels silly, like he’s mocking a true Buddhist monk with his sucky attempt at meditation.

The vet is just outside of the circle, arms clasped behind his back, face stoic but gaze intense. “Try to remember the process when you healed Derek. What was that like?”

Stiles closes his eyes and huffs, “It was easy…he was dying on my bathroom floor.”

“You need incentive then.”

His eyes snap open at Deaton’s pragmatic reply, and his jaw drops, face blanching at the sight of the utility knife that has materialized in the vet’s hand. “No. No wait. Let me try again before any self-harming and blood occurs. I’d really like to avoid the blood if at all possible.”

Deaton pockets the knife. “Close your eyes and think about controlling your breathing first. Then branch out and seek the energy. Focus on it. _Believe_ in it. Dwell on the concept of grabbing that energy in your hands and pushing it out. It’s perfectly normal if you mess up – don’t let that discourage you.”

“Right,” Stiles mutters and draws in a deep breath before dragging it out slow. He slips his eyelids shut and focuses on finding that epicenter of calm Deaton keeps referring to, but Stiles is certain is non-existent.

He tries, he really does, but nothing is happening. After several, dragging minutes of meditating with no better outcome than the last fifty times he has tried, his mind is nowhere near the definition of clear and still a jumbled mess. He pushes out a groan and slits one eye open, catches Deaton staring at him with an expectant lift of his brow.

“What?”

Deaton stares at him, unblinking. “What are you thinking about?”

Stiles opens and closes his mouth before answering, “What do you mean? I’m thinking about a lot of things—“

“Therein lies your problem.”

Narrowing his eyes at Deaton, Stiles retorts, “It’s not like I can turn it off with a switch. That’s not how an ADHD mind works.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you might not have ADHD anymore?”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Really? That’s stupid.”

“When was the last time you took Adderall?”

“I—“ Stiles closes his mouth, as he rummages through his head for a timeline. “Uh, since the nogistune. I think…yeah.”

“Before or after?”

Stiles swallows, stares at his hands on his lap and replies, “Before.”

“Makes sense considering your body healed that knife wound to your stomach while under the possession of the nogistune.”

“Now an ancient tree has that power. Lovely,” Stiles grumbles and rubs at a tender spot above his left eye, feels a headache coming. “ADHD isn’t some curable disease or a wound that can stitch itself in seconds, though.”

“No, but it still alters how a typical brain functions with attention, mood, and impulses. It is still a disorder of the neurochemical responses.”

“I always preferred to think I was the normal person and everyone else wasn’t,” Stiles says with a quirk of his lips, but Deaton is as blank as a new sheet of paper. Of course, he forgets the man is so dry when it comes to humor, the desert can’t even compete with him.

“Have you noticed that your impulses are not as erratic as they used to be?”

“Maybe, but I haven’t had a lot of time to sit down and contemplate something that’s been a part of me since…birth. Not really on my priority list at the moment.”

Deaton nods. “Understandable. But from an observer standpoint, you seem to have latched onto some of the stillness from the nogistune.”

“Am I supposed to find that comforting?”

“Regardless, you are capable of clearing your mind. You are capable of a lot more than you give yourself credit for. Just believe you can and it will. Recall what you did with the mountain ash at the rave and try that.”

Stiles sighs and shifts to stand up. He’s tired and his joints ache from sitting so long. “Thanks for the pep talk, but I don’t think this is going to work. I’m starving and I—” He shuts his mouth when Deaton’s eyes cinch tight around the edges and he motions for Stiles to sit, leaving no room for argument. He sinks back down with a wary, side-eyed stare.

“Let’s try something else then. Think about an anchor. Put all of your attention on that one thing or person and let your mind do the rest.”

“I don’t think—“

“Everyone has an anchor, Stiles. You don’t have to be a werewolf to have something to hold onto in order to control your emotions.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. He has no idea what or who his anchor is; he’s never really had to use one. He’d like to think it would be his dad, but now every time he thinks about him there is definitely no solidity holding Stiles steady. Rather it is a turbulent rush of rage, sorrow, and a hollowness left inside of him that can’t be filled.

He pushes past that idea before it can fester and thinks about Scott. That doesn’t seem to work, either. When he thinks of Scott, it becomes a tumble of emotions all smooshed into a tight ball of stress and leaves a phantom twinge in his stomach. Why, he is not sure, but Scott as an anchor is out of the question – at least for this experiment. Naturally he would think of Lydia next, but somehow he picks Derek. He focuses on his stillness; the way he moves with a quiet poise, his muscles fluid and unhindered. That alone should cause for a degree of concern, but when Stiles’ mind continues focusing on Derek, this whole meditation thing works a bit easier, faster.

Soon he picks up a good rhythm that helps him concentrate on his breathing. What is a normal involuntary action becomes voluntary as he concentrates and wills his diaphragm to move and pull in air and then push it out. His abdomen muscles contract and expand and his breathing soon becomes a smooth, composed transition. All he thinks about is dragging the air through his nose and then expelling it.

In. Out. In. Out.

Silence encompasses the clearing; leaves on trees stop rustling when the wind stills and critters cease their chirping, like a vacuum sucked out the noise. All he can hear is the soft swoosh of his breathing, his mind blissfully clear of its normal disorder pinging inside of his skull like a truck full of bouncy balls let loose. Instead can he rifle through his brain and choose an individual thought.

_Derek._

Stiles is reminded of beautiful, but daunting storm clouds rolling over a plain and then the sun poking through, rays of light spanning out and caressing what once was dark. Derek represents light and dark. He is calming and tumultuous within the same breath. In so many ways, he is unpredictable, but still a constant that is easier to understand the longer Stiles is around him. He is reliable. He is sacrificial, and without fail, always believes Stiles when others doubt him too much. He doesn’t have to say anything and Derek gets him, regardless of their frequent head-butting spats. He provides support even when Stiles doesn’t admit he needs it, like Derek just knows, but he also gives Stiles room to breathe.

The same calm Stiles felt when he laid his hands on Derek replicates, and the magic becomes a palpable, thrumming force. It vibrates beneath the surface of his skin to his fingertips. Nerves tingle, synapses firing, his body warm and relaxed as he lets the magic encircle him from within and then expand outward. The black ink across his back thrums as the energy undulates.

He lays his hands flat on the ground beside his thighs and lets out a long, steadying breath as the ground hums and pulsates under his palms. The ground trembles beneath him when the magic sweeps out of him in a shockwave. With a gasp, his eyes fly open. The vacuum effect reverses with a faint pop as the field erupts in a crescendo of sound: leaves rustling and branches creaking from the wind, birds and crickets chirping, a train horn blaring in the distance, along with Deaton’s quick inhale. He is staring at Stiles with eyes wide and an almost child-like awe.

“Fascinating,” Deaton says and steps closer, studying Stiles as if he is a rare, priceless artifact found after centuries of searching. A tiny smile pulls his lips thin.

Well, that doesn’t creep out Stiles one bit.  

He squirms under the scrutiny. Eyes narrowed at Deaton, he stands, brushing off dirt and dead leaves from his jeans. Realizes something is off, not just because of Deaton is still staring at him with that trademark ogling, deadpanned face. It is more like an unsettling wrench in his gut that he did something unnatural, or something he wasn’t supposed to. He scans the clearing and then breathes out, “Whoa...”

The trees lining the edge of the clearing were somehow uprooted and _moved_ closer, tightening the circle. He half expects the trees to start talking and march towards Isengard. Rather than limbs spreading outward from the trunks, the branches are curved and spiral. Almost like he hulked out and started twisting them with a corkscrew with his bare hands, but his mind instead. He did that and had no clue. If that isn’t screwed up, he doesn’t know what is anymore.

Then he smells the smoke. He peers down at his feet and finds the fading wisps where the rune circle should have been, but now replaced with a line of scorched earth. Whatever _mishaps_ Deaton expected to contain are null. At least he knows sigils and mountain ash have no effect on him.

He flashes a toothy sneer at Deaton, pointing down. “So much for that.”

Deaton shrugs, almost as if he knew it wouldn’t work and put it there for show. “How do you feel right now?”

Stiles flexes his fingers, making fists before relaxing his hands at his side. “Uh, strangely lighter… like that feeling when I don’t stuff myself with food to the point of pain. You know what I mean? I’m satisfied. I don’t have any other way of describing it.”

“No, that makes sense,” Deaton replies and bends down to pluck a small wild flower by his shoes. He twists the stem between his fingers as he steps closer to Stiles, looking at the plant with a considerate gaze.   

“If I can do all this just by meditating—“ Stiles gestures around him, gaping at the deformed trees and exhales a shaky breath, “I’m scared to find out what I would do if I lost my shit. What if I uproot the entire town?”

“Your emotions do have a pull on your magic, but I think you have more control than you think,” Deaton replies, not sounding the least bit worried as Stiles is feeling. “You may think you caused this without realizing, but you didn’t.”

“How do call _this_ control?”

Deaton blinks at Stiles. “Harnessing the spirit of _crann na beatha_ allows you to manipulate the elements. The Tree of Life has reign over all living and dead things.”

“Again with the vague observations. Enlighten me…in my speech, please.”

“Consider this a practice round of sorts.” He offers the flower to Stiles. “Hold this.”

Stiles blinks rapidly by the unexpected demand, but then he takes the flower, smirking. “Aw, you shouldn’t have. How did you know these are my favorite?”

“Kill it.”

“What?”

“Think about killing the flower. Let it shrivel up between your fingers.”

“Never knew you had it in you. I always viewed you as more of a pacifist, but then again you did want me to murder a cat, so…” When Deaton gives Stiles a longsuffering look, he clears his throat and wets his lips with a nervous twitch. “Right. Well, this _is_ better than the cat, at least.”   

Like Deaton, he spins the stem between his thumb and forefinger, creating a propeller effect with the petals. He thinks clearly and hard about the flower dying by his will; believes he has the power, no matter how small an object. He feels the distinct, but small tickle as the magic hums beneath his skin. The flower droops, the petals wilt and then one by one they fall off the browned, drying stem in a languid, depressing flow. He takes it a step further and conjures the idea of life rather than death, and the stem straightens, brightens to a delicate shade of green as leaves and petals grow back and flourish beyond its original size.

As he stares at the flower, at what he can do just by thinking it, he can’t stop his thoughts turning toward his dad. When Stiles had prayed and thought _hard_ on bringing his dad back to life, wanted nothing more in this world to believe and have faith in, but nothing happened. He wonders why he didn’t believe enough, why he didn’t fight harder to stop Peter, why he couldn’t do a damn thing but watch his dad bleed out. Yet it is such a simple, almost mundane thing that he can revive a fucking flower and not the one person who mattered most.

He swipes at his face when a stray tear falls. Releases the flower from nerveless fingers, and watches it twirl toward the ground through a garbled wall of water. He shakes his head and more tears trickle down. Then he asks through a choked whisper, “My dad…why couldn’t I bring him back?”

“Stiles, you were under the effects of the poison that paralyzed your magic. What happened is not your fault; you didn’t have control—“

“I can’t beat Peter. He’s already called checkmate.”

Deaton is shaking his head, mouth in a tight line. He rebuts, “You still have plenty of moves on the board to your advantage.”

Stiles wipes at the wetness on his face and blinks up at the sky. He wants to believe Deaton, he really does. If there are still moves left for Stiles to play, he has no clue what strategy he can use, not when Peter’s always two steps ahead of him. He thought he was ready to face Peter and get revenge, but more and more he doubts he will ever be ready to look at his dad’s killer again. But he knows that’s not true. While he can’t deny a piece of him wants to move away from the vendetta that his heart aches for, he’s not about to let his dad’s death go in vain. That stupid, stubborn pride he knows will get him killed one day won’t let him.

“Don’t push your magic away, not when you’ve opened the door and it has the potential to become the pack’s most powerful weapon,” Deaton adds. “If you allow your mind to remain unhindered, you will have the element of surprise on your side when you come face-to-face with Peter again.”

“Confidence boost appreciated, but not really helping.”

Deaton’s expression is flat, but then he blinks at Stiles and his face softens. “Let’s continue to practice. Meet me here tomorrow after school.”

As Stiles shrugs with an indifferent answer, his phone vibrates in his back pocket. He pulls it out and reads the text from Derek: **Meet @ the loft. Have news on Peter.**

A flutter of excitement beats against his ribs, but then falters. Is he really prepared for this? No matter if he is or not, he still wants to hear what Derek has to say about Peter. Might be a lead or nothing more than a few whispered rumors. Would be fantastic if Peter ended up mauled by another pack, but of course that’s wishful thinking.

“Yeah…okay. Tomorrow,” Stiles says to Deaton, and jogs across the clearing where the Jeep is parked on the side of the road.

He sends a reply that he’s on his way, and tosses the phone on the passenger seat once he climbs inside. Downtown is a good twenty minutes from the preserve, but Stiles makes it in ten. The FJ-Cruiser and Camaro are parked at the side of the building when Stiles pulls up next to the SUV and shifts the Jeep into park. He bounds up the stairs, taking two at a time.

The loft’s door is ajar. When he reaches for the handle, he reels back after he spots the dark, slick blood dripping from the metal. His heartbeat escalates beyond its already rapid pounding from climbing the stairs.

“Derek?”

Hand shaking, he blows out an unsteady exhale, and reaches for the door to pull it open. Eyes the staggering red boot prints leading inside and vaguely wonders if this is a trap, because why would Derek text him to come over in the middle of an intrusion? That is not like Derek at all. For that reason, Stiles hesitates a breath longer, but knows he can’t leave, not when there is a high chance Derek is hurt.    

“Der—“ Stiles’ voice cuts short, replaced with a clipped gasp, “Ah, fuck—“

He spots Derek sprawled in the middle of the loft’s floor, surrounded by a thick, spreading pool of blood. The initial shock evaporates and Stiles propels forward, crashing to his knees beside Derek’s prone body – feels the cooling blood soaking his jeans – hands ghosting over his shredded, gaping chest. Those are claw marks that opened up Derek like a meat grinder, which rules out a hunter attack, at least Stiles thinks so. Until he sees the black sludge oozing from the wounds and trickling over the corners of Derek’s lips; finds the origin of the toxin pumping through his system from the broken arrowhead coated in wolf’s bane still lodged between his clavicle and rib. No wonder he can’t heal.

“Derek? _Derek!_ ”

He doesn’t respond aside from labored breathing, lungs rattling with a sickly wet sound. His eyelashes are a stark contrast against colorless, clammy cheeks. His head is listless, mouth slack when Stiles seizes his face and starts shaking him. Nothing – not even a muscle twitch. By the looks of it, Derek must have escaped whoever attacked him and came back to the loft before he finally collapsed. There’s no evidence of an ambush here and no obvious signs of intruders lurking in the shadows, but that doesn’t rule out Stiles’ previous probability of a trap set.

Stiles blows out a rough, jittery breath. “Okay…all right, we’re doing this again, huh? You seriously need to stop passing out on me, dude. Always having to save your sorry ass…”

Before he jumpstarts the healing process on Derek, Stiles is grabbed from behind, a hand cinched tight around his right upper arm. He is yanked up and off his feet, away from Derek. His brain processes action through the haze of surprise, and he twists and contorts his body to throw off the attacker, but they both end up tumbling along the floor when the intruder doesn’t let Stiles go. The flash of blonde hair and blood red lips reminds Stiles of Erica, and for a split second he freaks out. He releasesa strangled shout as they crash against the sofa, and Stiles bangs his elbow on the base seconds before claws sink into the meat of his shoulder, holding tight. Nerves on fire, he swears he feels the nails scraping against bone, and he screams. Tears spring to his eyes, his muscles spasm from the blaze of pain, but he keeps rolling – anything to keep Derek out of harm’s way.   

They end up in a tangled heap several feet away, with Stiles trapped underneath the female werewolf. She is snarling and snapping her teeth inches from his nose. He jerks his face away, her hot, moist breath on his neck. She straddles him and he bucks his hips in an attempt to dislodge the werewolf, fighting with everything he has to get her off. With his arms pinned above his head beneath one clawed fist, she quickly knots her other hand in his hair, stretching his neck so far back it is past the limit of discomfort. The punctures in his shoulder itch as they heal. He can heal, sure, but he has nothing against the strength of a fucking werewolf.

There is no time to think, just _do._

He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he rouses the magic waiting with a surging need to be unleashed. Uses the only weapon he has against something stronger, and it comes as easy as killing the flower between his fingers. He thinks of nothing else but the growling werewolf shriveling up like that flower and turning into a husk of dried up skin and bones.

Power quickly flows, rippling like a Rayleigh seismic wave earthquake before he pushes it out. The werewolf rips out a scream so horrified and excruciating the devil would tremble. She struggles to pull away from Stiles, but some invisible force keeps them fused together as he drains the life out of her. He doesn’t have to look to know she is dying a rapid, but agonizing death. Hears the sound of her body shrinking, like paper crumbling, and feels her skin wrinkle and dry up above him. Her screams soon fade into a raspy, broken wail and then nothing.  

Breath wheezing through short pants, Stiles looks up and then chokes on a disgusted yell. Her mummified face hovers, almost brushing against his nose, her fangs long and glistening in the fading sunlight streaming into the loft. The decayed smell is vile, bringing tears to his eyes and coating the back of his throat. He gags and rolls away.   

A dark-skinned male appears at the top of the steps, crouched low, roaring at Stiles with cold blue eyes burning. Blonde girl and now this is like a punch in the stomach, and Stiles can only imagine the emotional blow it caused for Derek at seeing them before they struck with their claws.

Stiles kicks and shoves harder at the body until he can crawl away from the crumbling, rotted werewolf. He makes it back to Derek in a flailing, scuffling hurry and barely has time to throw a pile of mountain ash around them before the werewolf clears the distance in two strides. He collides against the unseen shield and he is tossed back several feet in the air, crashing at the base of the steps with a grunt.

The werewolf rolls back to his feet and stalks forward, but keeps his distance from the circle of ash. He growls and snaps his teeth at Stiles, but his threats are empty. Stiles reiterates that fact by giving him the bird.

“Now Stiles, that wasn’t nice,” Peter says in a voice dripping with mockery.

Stiles whips his head around as Peter emerges from behind the support column near the bed, arms crossed behind his back, strolling forward with the grace of a stalking predator. He was in the loft the entire time, watching, waiting. Fuck. Stiles shivers, his teeth grinding when his jaw locks. Despite the barrier keeping them safe for the moment, Stiles huddles over Derek, using his body as armor.

Peter grins, his blood red eyes roaming over Stiles, disappointed and hungry. “I was in such a good mood… and now you had to go and piss me off.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, eight months to get this chapter out... That is frustrating, on all accounts. Let's just say I ran into a major block and couldn't get out of it, but I am determined to finish this story. I am sorry for keeping you waiting so long, especially with the cliffhanger in the last chapter. The next and last chapter will be long and I am already working on it so I have hopes I can complete this story in the next few months. Again, thank you for sticking with me and giving this story a chance. I cannot express enough how thankful I am for all the positive feedback and kudos. It really does help us writers to cheer us up and motivate. :D

Peter throws the mountain ash a disgusted sneer before leveling his cold displeasure on Stiles. “You’re racking up on the strikes, you know. You’ve killed three of my betas and now this little stunt.”

Stiles grinds his molars until they screech with the friction; jaw locks tight and the pressure radiates up the sides of his skull, reaching the back of his neck and spreading across his shoulders. His hands feel flimsy from shaking so hard, but he doesn’t relent on the death grip he has on Derek.

“Do you want me to apologize? Beg and plead for your forgiveness because I happened to turn your cheerful day into a sour one? You came after _me_. So please, spare me the fucking monologue, Peter. Try something new for once, huh?”

They are backed into this proverbial corner with no way out unscathed, unless some miracle rescue happens to launch through the front door before Peter loses his patience. No doubt Scott is clueless; there is no way of getting in touch with him. Not with his cellphone conveniently left in the Jeep, and Peter in possession of Derek’s phone. Stiles doesn’t stop racking his brain for anything that’ll get him and Derek out of this predicament alive.  

With the wolf’s bane keeping Derek from healing, his injuries have extended beyond the grisly slashes across his chest and the arrowhead jutting out of his shoulder. That same shoulder is dislocated, the skin around the joint enflamed. Puncture wounds from claws litter his abdomen, black blood seeping. Both legs are broken, bent at excruciating angles at the kneecaps, which explains the wide trail of blood from the door, no doubt from crawling. Stiles swallows thick, tastes the acrid bile stinging at the back of his throat as he imagines Derek struggling to pull his body along the floor by the scant strength of his arms until he collapsed here.

Mortification quickly shifts to rage over Derek’s suffering at the hands of Peter and his betas. Stiles bristles, air hissing through his clenched teeth, his body quaking. If he knew the probability of winning against Peter would lean more in his favor, Stiles wouldn’t hesitate crossing the mountain ash and kicking his ass with every intention of making sure Peter doesn’t get back up. Ever.

Magic mojo or not, Peter is stronger, faster, meaner. Not to mention his beta is just salivating with the chance at sinking his teeth into Stiles’ flesh. Taking on a beta not fully shifted is one thing, but a beast twice the size of an actual wolf is a fast ticket toward a visceral death. Stiles prefers keeping all of his limbs intact for the time being.

Rather than sitting and brewing in anger Stiles uses the emotion as fuel to heal Derek. He reverses what Peter did to his nephew, challenging Peter to say anything or even attempt at interfering as Stiles plants his palm flat on Derek’s bloody chest.

The process is not like the last time on Stiles’ bathroom floor; nothing exhilarating or calm about it. This is painstaking and nauseating and exhausting for Stiles, and he is on the verge of collapse before he finishes. Derek hasn’t so much as fluttered an eyelash, not even after Stiles pulled the arrowhead out of his shoulder.

“Do us all a favor and shove this up your ass. It’ll go nicely with the narcissistic stick you already have rammed up there,” Stiles says and tosses the bloodied tip at Peter, who easily dodges it with a smooth sidestep.

“Such words,” Peter chides with a waggle of his finger. “Didn’t your father ever teach you manners?”

Irritation over Peter’s attempt to rile Stiles overpowers the grief he still feels over his dad’s death. He answers, “Yes, he did. But not to the likes of you who doesn’t deserve an ounce of respect.”

Peter clicks his tongue. Impressed, unlikely. Pissed, definitely. He appraises Stiles as he walks the outer rim of the mountain ash barrier, the toes of his leather shoes mere inches from the line. He stands like the pretentious asshole he is, hands clasped behind his back and peering down at Stiles across the line of his nose. His beta has shifted and is pacing behind Stiles and Derek, yipping and snapping its jaws, and Stiles fights to keep his eyes on Peter. Tries showing he’s not afraid or bothered by the wolf leering over his shoulder. Tries not thinking about the hot, moist breath puffing against the skin of his neck. 

“Give it up, Stiles. You can’t win this.”

Stiles waves his arm around. “What is this, exactly? Every time you show your ugly face there’s a different story. First you want to kill me. Then you want to use me for whatever diabolical evil plan you have at the moment, and then you’re right back wanting to kill me. I’m starting to get the impression you have no fucking clue what you want.” He narrows his eyes, curling his fingers into a fist in the cotton of Derek’s shirt. Relieved in the fact that he can feel Derek’s heartbeat, strong and steady in spite of the overt and unnecessary torture he suffered.

Peter’s upper lip twitches, but he gives no other sign of annoyance. He strides along the barricade, regarding his nephew with an expression devoid of any sort of sentimentality. Just proving further he only considers Derek as a pawn in whatever scheme to gain the upper hand. Knowing Derek was used as leverage against Stiles has him fuming, face hot with anger.

“Really, man… I’m dying to know why you have it so hot for me right now. This obsession is overkill, even for you,” Stiles adds with a curl of his upper lip.   

For a long beat Peter does nothing but stare at Stiles, a reedy grin spreading across his lips. “Why would I ruin all the suspense? I like to keep you guessing. The look of distress on your face brightens my day.”

A disgusted sound rumbles out of Stiles’ throat. “Of course it does, because you’re a sadistic masochist.”

Peter shrugs, blinking slowly. “I am what I am.” He pushes out a long, dramatized sigh. “Now Stiles, don’t make me force my hand in this. I hate being pegged as the bad guy when it’s not rightfully deserved.”

Stiles goads through a bitter laugh, “Really? You’re pinning the fault on me? Wow.”

Peter tugs free a gun from the waistband of his jeans and looks at it, considering. Turns it over in his hands, inspecting the sleek silver design as if this is his first time holding such a deadly tool. Probably is, considering werewolves have no need for human weapons.

Stiles swallows hard, hands shaking. He steels himself, muscles tense and waiting for the inevitable. Mountain ash has unfortunate limitations. Stuck in the middle of the room with only a magical line of dust keeping Peter at bay, there is no way to dodge a bullet.

Smiling, sickly sweet, Peter raises his arm and aims the gun at Derek. He sends Stiles a thoughtful look and says, “And here I thought I would have to go after Lydia again to persuade you. Hmm, seems like your interests have deviated a bit. Never saw that one coming.” His crooked smile says otherwise.  

Instinct has Stiles covering more of Derek’s prone body with his own.

“Now you’re just pulling bullshit out of your ass… I’d try to protect him regardless of who he is to me, because he’s a good guy. Unlike you… you’re his _family_ and this is how you treat him? As bait? That’s a new low, even for you.”

Peter feigns offense. “Oh, I don’t have a limit on how low I will go to get what I want. You should know that.”

“I was hoping I was wrong this time.”

“Shame on you then.”

“Yeah.” Stiles curls his lip. “Shame on me.”

Peter hums. He tosses the gun from one hand to the other, as if determining which angle is best to shoot Derek.

“We’ve been at this sort of impasse before. Just like with your dad caught in the middle, I won’t hesitate using my nephew as a means to get you to cooperate. It’s up to you how much Derek has to suffer, though.”

Stiles flinches before he can catch himself, a sudden pain in his chest that feels like a crowbar wrenching his ribs apart.

“What do you want from me?”

“Cross the mountain ash and come with me. Simple as that. I will leave Derek alone. He’s not important to me.”

Stiles blows out a cynical laugh. “Your word means shit to me. You promised not to hurt my dad and you murdered him—”

Peter pulls the trigger and Stiles yelps. He feels the momentum of the bullet hitting Derek in the soft flesh between shoulder and neck, jolting Derek out of his deep sleep with a choked cry. Stiles tightens his hold on Derek; the back of Derek’s head barely colliding with the invisible line. The circle is small with both of them huddled together with barely room to stretch. One abrupt move and Stiles could be tossed out of the circle with Derek trapped inside.

“What the fuck, man?” Stiles snaps his scathing stare on Peter before pinning his eyes back on Derek, watching, hands hovering with the need to help.   

Eyes squeezed shut, Derek curls inward, fingers red as he presses a hand over the seeping wound. His eyes flick around the loft, taking in what’s happened since he was out. His widened stare surveys Stiles and the circle they are trapped in. Then to Peter and his beta. Horror draws over Derek’s face like water sluicing across smooth rock. He stiffens and Stiles can feel the prickle of anger vibrating beneath Derek’s skin.

“Derek? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he answers Stiles through gritted teeth, but doesn’t look away from Peter.

Peter emphasizes with the gun as he says to Stiles, “Don’t underestimate my ambition to see this through. I will keep shooting, Stiles. Next one I’ll aim higher. There’s only so much a werewolf can heal from.”

Derek blinks his eyes wide open, staring at Peter through a pain-fueled haze brimming with betrayal and doubt and fear. “What are you doing, Peter? What is this?”

Without averting his eyes from Stiles, Peter answers Derek: “You’re a little late to the party, Derek. I’m trying to negotiate a deal with Stiles, but he’s being stubborn as always. I am dreadfully sorry you have to be caught in the middle of this, but incentives are paramount in these situations. Am I right, Stiles?”

Stiles presses his lips in a tight line. As much as he wants to spew out something to antagonize Peter, he keeps his mouth shut. For Derek’s sake. Maybe a little for his own sake, too. Knowing Peter, he won’t stay true on his word and he’ll see no need in keeping Derek alive. Just like Stiles’ dad: one more check off the list of people in Peter’s way. Stiles can’t let that happen again. He can’t keep losing the people he loves to this power hungry lunatic.

“Oh, come now, Stiles. Don’t be like that…” Peter actually pouts and Stiles wants to claw the mocking, disparaging look off his face.

“Do I really have a choice? Either way I look at it I don’t.”

A simple nonchalant shrug from Peter is Stiles’ answer. He glares harder at Peter, eyes narrowed. 

“Don’t, Stiles. We’ll find another way,” Derek says as he sits up eliciting a sharp grunt.

Blood has dried on his face; the only evidence of a brutal beating where cuts and bruises should be. The gunshot wound is already healing. At least Peter didn’t think to change out the clip with wolf’s bane laced bullets.

Stiles pushes out a long, strained exhale. His voice shakes as he says, “How? When? Derek, we’re trapped here with nothing to fight with. We’re screwed sideways. You know it.”

His ribs constrict with the impending panic attack, throat burning with air scraping along the delicate walls. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he flicks his eyes over Derek’s wide, searching stare. Shaking his head, Stiles opens his mouth, but snaps it shut when his voice vanishes in a strangled wheeze.  

“Look at me. Stiles, _look at me_.” Derek hooks a finger under Stiles’ chin and holds his gaze. “Just focus on my voice. There you go.” A faint smile touches Derek’s mouth when Stiles focuses on him and a bit of the edge in Derek’s eyes brightens. It is a small anchor, but steady enough to stop the anxiety from overcoming Stiles.

“We’ll find a way,” Derek says through a whisper. He nods as if to also encourage himself.  

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Peter says in a sing-song.

Derek growls at Peter, but doesn’t tear his eyes away from Stiles. He keeps Stiles’ face forward, silently conveying with his gaze the promise Stiles is desperate to cling to. They can get out of this. Scott will come – he has to – and they will fight. They can kill Peter and his beta. Simple as that.

Doubt still has a stronghold, nagging Stiles. Hope seems a fickle thing while confined to a small circle surrounded by enemies. He can’t help thinking of all the ways this could end badly for him and Derek. Peter has the means of killing Derek without even touching him and Stiles would be helpless. Or maybe Peter doesn’t have the capability and that’s why he keeps stalling. Maybe Stiles and Derek can find a way out of this.

Some of the ache pressing against Stiles’ chest lifts with the prospect, but slams right back down when Peter fires the gun again. This time hitting Derek in the side below his ribs and then another just below the left clavicle. Derek jerks with the double impact, wincing with a shuddering breath. Stiles grabs his arms to keep Derek from tipping over while Peter’s beta whines at the smell of fresh blood.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, voice cracking, shaking as his eyes roam over Derek’s new injuries. Wounds that Stiles could have easily prevented if he would just relent.

“M’fine,” Derek snaps, but immediately cringes with regret at the harsh tone he directs at Stiles. “It’s okay. I'll live.” His smile is forced and lacks assurance.

“Time is running out and my patience is all but run dry.” Peter sighs. “You have sixty seconds before I shoot Derek in the head.”

Derek’s fingers squeeze Stiles’ forearms, his eyes hazy with pain but still drilling into Stiles with a fierce determination to not give in. When Stiles opens his mouth to speak, Derek shakes his head and holds Stiles’ face with a firm and unwavering grip without digging in. The touch is comforting, grounding. Stiles breathes a little easier, but that doesn’t change what he knows he has to do. He never had an ultimatum, just one choice by giving Peter what he wants. Stiles can’t sit here any longer and let Derek take the punishment.

It shouldn’t be hard. Get up and cross over the mountain ash line and Derek can be spared. Stiles has to believe Peter will hold his word this time; it’s the only thing giving Stiles courage to look at Derek and tell him without words what needs to be done.

Disbelief and a flash of betrayal crosses Derek’s brow. “Stiles, no…” he whispers hoarsely, shaking his head. “You can’t go with him.”

“Tick tock. Choose now, Stiles. Be the clever boy I know you are.”

Stiles groans, shutting his eyes as if physically pained by Peter’s voice. Slowly, he stands and a low growl ripples past Derek’s clenched teeth. His hand is a feather light touch at Stiles’ elbow, but the sensation seems like a boulder has landed on Stiles’ chest. He draws in a ragged breath, shaking hard as he exhales.

Peter aims the gun at Derek’s head.

“All right! Stop.” Stiles flinches and almost launches forward with the impulse to slap the gun out of Peter’s hand.

Derek grabs Stiles, fingers constricting but not yet hurting. Blood paints Stiles’ skin red where Derek holds on. All Stiles sees is blood everywhere. Not just from Derek, but from Lydia. Scott. His dad’s blood, still dripping thick and dark from Peter’s claws.  

Stiles blinks hard. He stares at Derek. Gathers in the unrestrained fright blazing in Derek’s eyes and it feels like he has been punched in the ribs. 

“Don’t. Stiles, don’t.” Derek’s voice scrapes Stiles raw inside. “If you give him what he wants, he’ll destroy you.”   

Stiles knows, that truth stifling with fear, but he shakes his head. “I can’t lose you. I can’t lose anyone else.”

With great effort he tugs free and steps over the mountain ash towards Peter’s eager gaze. Derek resorts to yelling, but Stiles can no longer make out whatever he is saying through the heavy pulsation of his heartbeat flooding his ears. He doesn’t look back; he can’t find the nerve. He will only see his own fear staring back at him and knows it will cripple him.

Peter lays a hand on the back of Stiles’ neck and his fingers curl against the soft flesh. The touch is possessive and sends a jolting quack along Stiles’ spine, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t think to strike back with magic or even a well-placed fist across Peter’s jaw. As much as he wants to. Instead, he steels those impulses in spite of his nerves tingling for vengeance. When Peter smiles with victorious delight, Stiles feels sick. Sick of his weakness and defeat. If not for Peter’s hand on his neck, his legs would give.

Derek bangs his fists and pushes against the barrier with his shoulder only to rebound from the supernatural force field. Still, he keeps fighting while yelling back and forth between venomous threats at Peter and pleading with Stiles, even after his voice is frayed and choppy. His anger and desperation is palpable, a bitter tang choking Stiles.

Closing his eyes, Stiles has to shove down hard on his gut feeling screaming at him to listen to Derek’s pleas to run, to fight, anything but giving in. The fight is harder when Peter ushers him out of the loft by the hand at his neck. Collared, bidding to Peter’s whim without so much as a bitter remark and Stiles wants to throw up. Why he doesn’t use his magic against Peter, Stiles doesn’t know. The menacing power Peter holds over him by threatening his friends has rendered Stiles incapable of fighting, he is so paralyzed with the fear of Peter’s retaliation. He can’t stand to see another one he loves butchered in front of him. Not only would loss eat him alive, but also the guilt.   

“Good boy, Stiles,” Peter whispers in Stiles’ ear, his breath hot and moist, hand squeezing uncomfortably. “Finally you see reason.”

Stiles recoils and his footing falters; that tiny voice in his conscience growing stronger and louder the more he gives in to Peter. Revulsion over his weakness halts Stiles from moving another step. An innate drive to deprive the alpha of his appendage latched onto Stiles’ neck has him grabbing for Peter’s wrist to pull him off. Without thinking of the consequences, his fingers dig deep in the flesh of Peter’s arm as power ripples like a tidal wave inside of Stiles, the force of it thundering beneath the surface of his skin and he trembles. Feels as if he is going to explode from it if he doesn’t quickly grasp control. Though a part of him doesn’t want to rein in the power; he wants to unleash it all on Peter with the hope the magic will disintegrate him to dust.    

Eyes igniting red, Peter twists his face in a sneer, his gaze lowering to the hand on his arm as if Stiles is contaminating him. Stiles bares his teeth, nostrils flaring, cowardice making way for defiance. Anger radiating from Peter quickly gives way for surprise as the magic fires out of Stiles’ fingertips with the effect of an electrical tremor, and propels Peter back several feet in the air. He crashes against a support column with so much force the impact reverberates through the soles of Stiles’ feet and up to the crown of his head.

In the tiny, elated moment, Stiles completely disregarded the beta until it launches at him, taking him down hard and knocking the wind out of him in a violent whoosh. They tumble down the low steps and Stiles feels teeth sink into the meat of his left arm and he cries out. Tries to punch and kick the animal off him but the wolf’s powerful jaws lock down, twisting and tearing flesh and tossing Stiles around like a ragdoll. Shoulder joint pops out with a sickening crunch and the pain is so hot and intense, Stiles blacks out for a few seconds only to come to with the wolf’s bloody maw inches from his face.

Derek releases a frantic shout. His voice seems faded, as if Stiles is hearing it from the far end of a deep tunnel. The circle is less than two feet away from where Stiles is sprawled underneath the wolf. Somehow, he finds the stamina to kick its hind legs, giving him just enough leverage to roll away. Left arm useless, he drags his body forward only for the beta to bite down on his ankle and drag him back before his hand can swipe the mountain ash and break the line.

His fingers grope for purchase on the floor as he’s pulled several feet away from the circle. A desperate and aching scream rips out of Stiles as he is taken further away from Derek, from that small morsel of hope easily slipping through his fingers like sand. He catches the petrified look crumbling Derek’s face before Stiles is flipped on his back and Peter’s heel grinds down on his damaged arm. Pain scorches a path through his nervous system and he bucks underneath Peter, gasping for air around the scream lodged in his throat.

“That was a big mistake,” Peter says, standing over him.

“Ah, go fuck yourself,” Stiles retorts breathlessly with as much vitriol he can spare through the dense cloud of pain pounding in tune with his rapid heartbeat.

Peter’s face is devoid of expression, making it hard to depict just how furious he is. But if the gun held in a white-knuckled grip at his side is any indication, Stiles would say pretty fucking irritated. He doesn’t know what scares him more: this stoic calm or a blatant visage of rage.

Regardless, Stiles refuses going down without a fight. Idiotic, of course, but gives Stiles the satisfaction of knowing Peter has to fight just as much to get his way.

Monumentally livid is a more precise description when he kicks Stiles in the face. His head snaps back against the concrete floor with a resounding crack and his vision squeezes at the edges. Awareness tilts on a precarious edge and Stiles barely hangs onto consciousness, barely makes out Derek talking. He blinks his vision to a semblance of focus and looks back at Derek, craning his neck before feebly rolling on his good side. Spits out blood from biting down on his tongue.

Dread tenses the lines around Derek’s eyes and mouth. His gaze is bleak, brimming with distress, his lips moving with a silent apology toward Stiles before the murderous edge returns, pointed at Peter.

“I will come after you, Peter. You do this and I will rip your head from your body.”

“Idle threats,” Peter says, clicking his tongue. “You’re weak, Derek. Always have been. You really think you are in any position to try and kill me, even if you weren’t trapped, or do I need to remind you again what I can do to you? Don’t throw out these petty promises because you won’t be able to keep them. And soon, once the ritual is complete, Stiles will be mine and I’ll be unstoppable.”

Derek growls, lunging forward but catches himself before hitting the invisible barrier. He sends Peter a hooded glare and bares his fangs.

Clarity snaps back like a rubber band on skin. Stiles gapes. “Wh—what? What the hell are you talking about?”

Peter smiles sweetly at him, and if the expression wasn’t plastered on the alpha’s arrogant face, Stiles would find it endearing.

“Didn’t you get the memo?”

Stiles lifts his brows and forces out a grating snarl. “Apparently not.”

“I really wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise for you, but fine… In three days while the full moon is at its peak in the sky, I will bond your soul to mine and your magic will give me the power to become invincible. Little tip I found out from a witch down in New Orleans. You are quite the immense topic of conversation within the covens around those parts. Word has spread fast on the Nemeton using you as a conduit for its endless power,” Peter replies as if he conversing about the weather, not at all fazed by the color draining from Stiles’ face.  

Stunned, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, his heart booms in his throat with the undeniable urge to flee winding up his muscles for a swift escape. The wolf senses his autonomic reaction for flight and pins Stiles, like a bug impaled to a card, on his stomach with its enormous paws at his back. Can feel its breath through his hair, big teeth just waiting for the opportunity to snap.

“Fucking terrific,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

“Peter,” Derek warns in a low, dangerous tone. “Don’t.”

Peter is a mask of indifference. Bending down, he lifts Stiles by the scuff of his neck and gives him a shake when Stiles flails his limbs in a futile attempt at rebellion. Unable to get his feet under him, he ends up dangling from the firm grip. Feels like some puppy reprimanded for pissing on the carpet. Stiles grinds his teeth, infuriated, but he stays silent.

“I think we’re done here,” Peter says. 

He raises the gun in his other hand. Stiles’ heart plummets, not only with the imminent threat but also from Derek uncoiling tense muscles in a sign of resignation. Winning in any fight against Peter seems a dismal and hopeless endeavor. Admitting that is harder.   

“Say goodbye, Stiles. You’ll never see Derek again.”

Struggling anew, Stiles shouts through a strained gust of air, “No! Wait, wait… I’ll go. I’ll go…without a fight. I promise no more bullshit. Okay? Please, Peter… give me that. Please.”

Peter stiffens, at least considering it. Drags on the minutes with every intention of stressing the torture of waiting and Stiles suppresses the urge to scream. He squirms under Peter’s hold, impatient and anxious to know what Peter will finally decide. Fearful he will end up shooting Derek anyway, and Stiles will be helpless just as he was when Peter killed his father. The gruesome image of Derek dying, bleeding out on the floor, has Stiles shaking. He is warned with a swift squeeze around his neck and he huffs, going still.  

Releasing a melodramatic sigh, Peter lowers the gun and Stiles sucks in a breath and holds it. Keeps his eyes fixed on Derek with an incredible weight of eagerness and panic warring within. Derek just shakes his head, dark brows scrunched together and mouth set in a grim line. His jaw works as though he wants to say something but can’t get the words out, or he is repressing.

“I have a soft spot for you, Derek… but don’t make me regret it,” Peter says and turns, dragging Stiles with him by a rigid hold of his upper arm.

Stiles stumbles and trips over his feet, not anticipating the amount of strength Peter uses to pull him along, almost taking him off the ground altogether. Along with his beta following close behind, blue eyes trained on Stiles and practically nipping at his calves to stop him from stalling.

Prior to having another arm pulled from its socket, Stiles hurries to catch up. He chances a look over his shoulder and glimpses Derek sinking to his knees with the blatant weight of failure and loss, and Stiles feels that burden slam into him like the force of a head-on collision. He hiccups, trying to pull in air that seems too thick as his lungs constrict, and he staggers again. Opens his mouth to say something – anything – but words are lost. His voice is lost in the midst of the panic rushing to the surface.

Peter gives him no chance to say a proper goodbye, rushing to leave the loft, and Derek is gone from sight.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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